


Another Uninnocent Elegant Fall

by raving_liberal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aggressively Positive, Alternate Season/Series 14, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Babies, Children, Domestic Fluff, F/F, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Literal Alternate Universes, M/M, Multiverse, Nephilim, Off-screen Relationship(s), Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Season/Series 14, Slow Burn, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: Feeling lonely and considering the plight of Heaven without enough angels to provide the necessary grace to keep the lights on, Jack searches throughout the multiverse for other nephilim. These nephilim would have been his “siblings” (the half-angelic children of his family—Cas, Sam, Dean, and Mary—from alternate universes) if the angels hadn’t systematically destroyed them in every dimension. One by one, Jack’s siblings appear in the bunker: Sam’s beautiful daughter, Ophelia, who falls head over heels in love with Maggie; Cas’s small and serious son, James Junior; MJ (Mary Junior), the daughter of Mary Winchester and Michael, who would have been born instead of Dean in her universe and who wields her own angel blade; Sonny, whose Enochian name is too difficult to pronounce and who is a result of Sam’s darkest possible timeline. As the family expands by unexpected leaps and bounds, and the Winchesters wrestle with parenting and their own might-have-beens, Dean and Castiel grow closer amidst the chaos.An aggressively positive alternative season 14.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by yanyann; you can find her master post [here](https://yanyann.livejournal.com/16704.html). Thank you for the beautiful drawings of the nephilim kiddos! Please check out her alternate glowing-eyed versions of the nephilim because they're awesome.
> 
> Thank you to the best editor a girl could have, the inimitable david of oz. Additional thanks to geeky_ramblings for being an epic cheerleader for this project! <3

Dean recognizes the sound before anyone else – even, strangely, Cas. Maybe it sounds like normal conversation to Cas, not much different from Angel Radio. To Dean, it’s a punishing high-pitched shriek and buzz that vibrates down into his bones. When the bright white light begins to fill the bunker, Dean barely has time to scream “Get down!” and tuck Maggie’s face into his chest as he does just that, hitting the deck with the kid shielded under him. The light intensifies, so bright that Dean can see it through his closed eyelids, then abruptly goes dark again as something lands on top of the heavy wooden table with a thump.

Dean opens his eyes and almost immediately shuts them again, because the girl—the entirely naked girl—crouching in the middle of the table doesn’t look any older than Maggie, if she’s even that old. He peeks again, strategically keeping his gaze focused on the girl’s face. She has tawny skin, hair a halo of tight black curls, and a heart-shaped face with angular, wide-spaced eyes that slowly pan across the library without blinking. She shifts slightly, an awkward coltishness to her long limbs. A newness. Still, something about her looks familiar.

She stands, her unsteady legs trembling, but her chin held high and proud. Dean has no trouble keeping his eyes on her face, nor, he suspects, does anyone else.

“Fear not!” she declares to the room. 

“Oh, wow,” Jack says, his voice soft with awe. “It worked.”

Sam asks before Dean can even formulate words. “Jack, did you summon an angel?”

“No,” Jack says. He shakes his head, but his eyes don’t leave the angel’s face, which looks perfectly symmetrical, her lips tinged a deep rosy pink.

“I don’t recognize this angel,” Cas says. He doesn’t sound any less awed than Jack.

“So she’s not someone you’ve ever tangled with before?” Dean asks. He rights himself, letting Maggie out of his grip with some of her dignity still intact; she hurries out of the room like a disgruntled bird. Dean then mentally runs the litany of angelic contingencies: where is the holy oil, who has angel blades, can he draw the banishing sigil somewhere that won’t blast Cas away, too?

“No, Dean,” Cas says, staring at the girl with the sort of intensity usually reserved for his human family. “I know all of the angels in Heaven, few as they are, but I don’t know her.” He takes a step closer to the table, where the angel still stands like a regal, if shaky, statue. She tilts her head, bird-like, to look at Cas. “Dean, I think she’s new.”

“Jack,” Sam says, pitching his voice low, calm and careful. “Did you _make_ an angel?”

“No? I mean, not exactly,” Jack answers, less sure this time. “I just thought she _should_ exist. I was thinking about what Castiel said about Heaven dimming because most of the angels were gone, and then I was thinking about my mother. And I thought…” He bites his lower lip like a child caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing.

“What’d you think, kid?” Dean asks. 

“I thought it was a little lonely, without anyone else here like me.”

“You were lonely, so you _thought an angel into existence?_ ” Dean says. “You just made one up in your head and she appeared?”

Jack’s guilty, lip-biting expression intensifies. “Not exactly,” he says again.

Dean frowns, holding back the urge to snap at the kid, which wouldn’t help anyone. “Where did she get the vessel, and why is she naked?” 

Cas inhales sharply, and Dean whips his head around to look at him. Cas looks paler than usual, eyes wide.

“Dean?” Cas says, his voice pinched and thin with distress. “Dean, she isn’t— I don’t think she’s—”

The girl’s eyes suddenly begin glowing golden-yellow. 

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “She’s—”

“Nephilim,” Cas breathes.

“Jack, why— what the— how the hell is there a naked nephilim chick on my table?” Dean asks, somehow managing to keep the panic scrabbling at his brain on the downlow.

“When Castiel was in Heaven, he had brothers and sisters. Millions of them,” Jack says. “But they hated things like me. And Dean, you and Sam have got each other. I’ve been all alone.”

“You’re not alone, Jack,” Cas says. “You have a family here. We love you.”

“I know,” Jack says. He smiles at Cas, then shifts his eyes over to Dean, bathing him in warm affection. “But I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. The angels wouldn’t allow anyone like me to live in this world, so I looked through _all_ of the worlds until I found my brothers and sisters.”

“Jack, please tell me this girl isn’t Lucifer’s kid,” Dean says. He can’t do this again. He loves Jack, he truly does, but he struggled to get here, and he doesn’t know if he can do it again.

Jack’s smile widens. “Family doesn’t have to be blood. I know that. That’s why I looked for my siblings from my fathers, my real fathers.”

Cas and Dean exchange a loaded look. Cas looks like he might be understanding more than Dean, but he and Dean don’t share the same level of explaining-it-with-a-single-look that Dean has with Sam. Dean checks with Sam; _his_ look clearly communicates _I don’t know what the fuck is happening here, and I don’t like it!_

“Your fathers,” Cas says. He draws himself up tall, and Dean is reminded that Cas is an angel of the Lord, a divine thing, called back into being by this very same kid they’re discussing family and mysterious naked nephilim chicks with right now.

Jack nods. “I looked through all the worlds I could find. I thought about every nephilim the angels wouldn’t allow to be born. I felt them. I looked for the ones who were my siblings, and I called them here.”

“If the angels destroyed them, how are they even here?” Dean asks.

“They could destroy their mothers, but their souls and their grace went out into their universes,” Jack says. “I found them.”

“Jack,” Cas says, so very gently. “Has she taken a vessel?” Jack shakes his head.

“No. She’s like me. This body is hers. She didn’t take it. It just… happened.”

Dean looks at the nephilim standing like some kind of divine, naked Bambi on the heavy Men of Letters table. He looks, really looks, at the peculiar tilt of her eyes, at the ambiguous color that Dean would know anywhere, should have recognized immediately. It hits him like a gut punch.

“Jack?” Dean asks. “Is she Sam’s? Is this Sam’s kid?”

“What?” Sam says. He shakes his head slowly. “No. That’s not—”

Jack beams. “I wasn’t sure who might come first. I’m so glad you recognize her!”

Dean looks over at Sam, who drops into the nearest chair, all the color draining out of his face. Figures. All the shit they’ve seen, and this is the one thing that blows Sammy’s mind. Fucking typical.

“Sammy’s got a kid,” Dean mutters. “I’ve got a niece. Oh my God, my niece is naked on my table. That’s my niece from an alternate universe, and she’s naked on my table!” He pulls off his flannel shirt and holds it out to the girl, averting his eyes to glare at his currently useless brother while simultaneously thrusting the shirt at her. 

“Put it on,” Jack encourages her. The girl takes the shirt in both hands, staring at it. Jack removes his own flannel, then puts it back on slowly, demonstrating how it works. He takes it off and puts it on again two more times. Finally, the girl gets a clue and pulls Dean’s shirt on. It doesn’t go far enough past her hips for full-on decency, but at least she’s not totally naked as Jack helps her down off the table with two steady hands.

“Fear not,” the girls says again in a tremulous voice, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the bunker’s low light. 

“Why does she keep saying that?” Sam asks. He doesn’t take his eyes off the girl. It’s fucking weird how much the kid looks like him, now that Dean has it figured out.

“It’s basic angel programming,” Cas explains. “Our true forms can be terrifying, even when they don’t…” He trails off and makes a _you know_ sort of face. Dean doesn’t know, though his brushes with Cas at his original factory settings were pretty painful.

“But she isn’t an angel,” Dean says.

“She has grace. I guess the program comes with the package,” Cas says.

“Where is my Father?” the nephilim girl asks Jack, having successfully identified him as the person with the most knowledge of what’s happening. Dean can practically hear the capital F in her question. 

“He’s right there,” Jack says, pointing at Sam. Sam goes even paler and a little green, like he’s maybe thinking about greeting his new kid by puking on her feet.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean says in a low-pitched voice. “Where did she come from? In what world was Sam making it with an angel?”

“In an infinite number of universes, I suppose all manner of possibilities could unfold,” Cas says. He sounds thoughtful, and annoyingly un-shook-up by this completely crazy-ass turn of events. 

“An infin— Jack!” Dean snaps. Jack looks at him, beaming from where he’s still holding both the nephilim’s hands in his. She’s taller than Jack by a good three inches, despite looking a few years younger. The way her cheeks dimple when she smiles at Jack is pure Sam. Crazytown.

“She seems nice,” Cas offers in Sam’s direction.

Dean shoots him a look. “Not helping, Cas!”

“I’m just saying that as far as nephilim go, she seems to have some degree of certainty about her form, and she—”

Dean cuts Cas off, addressing Jack again. “How many, Jack? How many of these kids should we expect, what with infinite universes and all that?” 

Jack shrugs. The nephilim girl watches him and mimics his shrug exactly, which is when Dean realizes Jack must have learned how to shrug by watching Sam. Nephilim girl shrugs exactly like Sam. It’s just barely this side of creepy.

“All I did was call. I’m not sure who’ll answer,” Jack says.

“Oh for the—” Dean huffs a loud breath, reining in his temper so as not to freak out his brand new niece. His half-angel niece. Sam’s kid, who is Dean’s niece and half an angel.

“You’re handling this very well,” Cas says, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder in what is clearly meant to be a show of support, but which actually ends up making Dean feel even more panicky, for reasons he isn’t willing to explore at this juncture.

What the hell? Okay. Focus. 

“Well, better than Sam,” Cas adds, as Sam’s head drops forward into his hands.

Dean looks his new niece straight in the eyes, tries to soften his expression. Thinks the word _safe, safe, safe_ , over and over, hoping she picks up on it instead of the abject losing-his-shit that Sam’s probably radiating.

“Hey, kid,” Dean says, gentle as he can manage. “You got a name?”

The girl blinks her Sam-eyes at him, does the bird tilt with her head again as she thinks. 

“Ophelia,” she says. “They were to name me Ophelia.”

Dean can’t help that he snorts, even though it makes Cas turn that pursed-lip look of disapproval on him. He _hmms_ at Dean, all judgy-like.

“What?” Dean asks. “Figures he’d name his kid after some Shakespearean chick.”

“My Father?” the girl—Ophelia—asks, and oh shit, she’s already nailed Sam’s puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean tells her. He waves his hand in his brother’s direction. “So, Sam— that’s your dad. He’ll be okay if we just give him a couple minutes to get his shit together.” Ophelia nods like she understands, but her expression doesn’t change. Dean clasps Cas’s nearest shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. “This guy here is Cas. Castiel. He’s—”

“An angel of the Lord!” Ophelia says, abruptly pulling her hands from Jack’s and trying to scramble away on her wobbly Bambi legs. Her eyes screw tightly closed, all of her folding in on herself in her panic. The room fills with the sound of rustling feathers, though she doesn’t take flight—or disappear or however the fuck that works—immediately. Maybe the learning curve is steeper when you get yanked into a new universe.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Dean says, pitching his voice low and soothing. “Cas won’t hurt you. He’s Jack’s dad, okay? Or one of ’em, anyway. He’s good people. You’re safe, kid, you’re okay.”

Ophelia barely registers Dean’s words. She does, however, allow Jack to crowd into her personal space and cradle her face in his hands – oh so carefully, oh so gently. Jack brings his forehead to hers, and she allows it. She settles. The sound of wings dies down.

“Castiel protected me before I was born,” Dean hears Jack quietly tell Ophelia. “He’s the reason I was born. He’s one of the reasons I knew it was safe for you to exist here.”

“But I am an unclean thing unto the Heavenly Host,” Ophelia laments. “I am unworthy of my grace and must be purged for the good of Heaven and Earth!” Dean’s right hand itches for an angel blade and a few expendable angels to run through with it for making this kid think something like that about herself, about Jack. He can hardly keep a lid on his rage.

Jack, however, has _got this_. He looks at Ophelia, their eyes flashing that uncanny gold at each other, showing her their sameness, promising her the same safety he has. 

“You’re not unclean or unworthy,” Jack tells her. “You’re my sister, and there isn’t anything wrong with you. You’re family. You belong here. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

Dean’s heart does a little flip, because oh brother, has he been on this ride. He’s given so many versions of this speech – to Sam, to Cas, to Jack. If Jack’s hellbent on saving all his brothers and sisters… well, he learned it from the best. He’s a Winchester.

Sam apparently decides he can handle it now, because he stands up, still ashen but not at Puke Threat Level Alpha Five or whatever anymore. He takes a few tentative steps towards Jack and Ophelia.

“Hi,” he says, holding out one hand, palm up. Ophelia looks at Jack for reassurance—Jack smiles and nods like a champ—and then she gently rests her own hand on top of Sam’s. She has long fingers, several shades darker than Sam’s, but similarly shaped. 

“Hello, Father,” Ophelia says. The air around her stirs and whispers like feathers shifting, but she stands stock still.

“This is probably pretty confusing and scary,” Sam says. Ophelia nods, eyes bright, but Sam-colored, not nephilim gold.

“I was torn away e’er I was brought unto this Earth,” she says. She blinks once, then corrects herself. “Another Earth. This one is much more welcoming.”

Sam smiles and curls his hand around Ophelia’s. “I’m glad you feel welcome. We’re really glad you’re here. Surprised, but glad. It’s good. Really good.”

“Thank you, Father,” Ophelia says, bowing her head like Sam has bestowed some kind of blessing on her or something, which is just… weird.

“You can call me Sam if you want,” Sam says. 

“Or you could call him Dad,” Dean offers, unable to help himself. “Papa. Daddy. Pa’s probably out, but you’ve got some options.”

“‘Sam’ is fine,” Sam says, like a big spoilsport.

“Thank you… Sam,” Ophelia tries. Sam smiles, which makes her smile (sweet Jesus she looks like Sam), which makes _Jack_ smile, and then it spreads to everyone else in a relieved and joyful wave.

“I brought clothes!” Maggie suddenly announces from the doorway. She’s a whole ’nother kind of angel, as far as Dean is concerned, because the flannel alone is not cutting it. Maggie has a t-shirt and a pair of yoga-style jogging pants in her hands.

“You should go with Maggie, get a little more comfortable,” Sam says. 

Ophelia nods gravely. “Yes, Sam.”

“Maggie’s really nice,” Jack says. He takes Ophelia’s free hand and pulls her away from Sam. Sam hangs on a second or two too long, but nobody’s inclined to hold that against him, Dean suspects. 

Maggie, Jack, and Ophelia leave the room. Sam’s shoulders slump as soon as the kids are out of sight. 

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Sam says.

“You’re a dad now,” Dean says. “Mazel tov.”

“Her mother must have been an angel within a human vessel,” Cas muses. “Much as how Lucifer’s essence overrode the genetic components of his vessel, Ophelia’s other parent must have imbued their own angelic grace into the child conceived with Sam.” Sam clears his throat, and Cas looks slightly abashed. “My apologies, Sam. A child conceived with _a_ Sam, from some other iteration of the universe.”

“You think we can find out who the kid’s mom was?” Dean asks. 

“The best course of action is the direct one,” Cas says. “We can ask Ophelia what she knows about her mother, either the vessel that carried her, or the angel within that vessel.”

“This is just wild,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair and combing it up into wild angles, if Cas’s amused look is anything to go by.

“Angelic biology is indeed something quite beyond the typical human experience of conception,” Cas agrees. “It is certainly ‘wild’ by comparison.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Sam asks. “I mean, I always kind of hoped I’d have a kid one day, but she’s like Jack. She’s already grown up.”

“Nah, she’s still just a kid,” Dean says. 

“She will greatly benefit from your love and mentorship, if Jack is any indication,” Cas says. 

Dean nods. “Exactly. She’s big, but she’s still new. She needs you.”

“She needs all of us,” Sam says. “Wow. This is so…”

“Weird? Fucked up? Kinda cool, though?” Dean offers.

“Yeah, all of that,” Sam says. He still looks more than a little stunned.

“Cigars!” Dean says. Sam and Cas both look at him in confusion. “What? My baby brother just had a _kid_! That’s cigar-worthy.”

Sam chokes out a brief laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean actually manages to rustle up some cigars from some sort of enchanted humidor in one of the bunker’s many storage rooms. Hell, they’re probably even pre-embargo Cubans. He brings the cigars and a bottle of bourbon up from storage and sets them on the table in front of Sam, who still looks kind of shell-shocked.

“Smoke up, Sammy,” Dean says, plunking his lighter and a cigar cutter down next to the cigars.

“Smoking is a poor choice for a new parent,” Cas says, like the wettest wet blanket to ever smother a good time before it starts. “Surely Sam wishes to optimize his life expectancy to spend more time with his daughter.” 

“One cigar ain’t gonna kill him,” Dean insists. He picks up a cigar, unwraps it, cuts it, and more or less shoves it between Sam’s lips, giving Cas the stink-eye all the while. Sam barely seems aware of the conversation. He doesn’t protest when Dean lights the cigar. Dean smiles smugly at Cas and pours Sam a stiff drink to go with his cigar. Cas frowns.

“Sam, maybe you should—” Cas begins, but Dean cuts him off.

“—finish that drink before the kids get back,” Dean says, making aggressive eye contact with Cas that dares him to argue. Cas doesn’t argue, though; he just presses his lips together disapprovingly.

“Yeah,” Sam says, taking an enthusiastic puff of his cigar, chasing it with the bourbon, tossed back in a single swallow. His eyebrows rise. “Damn.”

“Good, right?” Dean asks. “Top shelf liquor. Magic humidor. Turns out the Men of Letters were exactly my kinda lushes. Should’ve realized it from the robes.” He holds a cigar out to Cas. “Hey, man. We’re celebrating. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Cas’s frown lines deepen, though he does accept the cigar from Dean and even allows him to light it. As to whether or not he actually smokes it, well… Dean doesn’t let himself pay that much attention. Besides, it’s the symbolism that’s important.

Dean snags glasses from one of the cabinets and pours bourbons for himself and Cas, too. As with the cigar, Cas doesn’t put up a fuss about the drink, accepting it graciously. Dean lights and smokes his own cigar, occasionally topping off drinks as they sit quietly. The bunker is home, and while it’s familiar and comfortable, it’s also huge, so even with the kids off somewhere in the living quarters, silence settles over the room holding Cas and the Winchesters – the _adult_ Winchesters, Dean reminds himself, and ain’t that a thing?

While the cigar-and-bourbon hush feels cozy enough to Dean, Sam must not feel quite settled yet, because he exhales loudly, smoke billowing out of his mouth, and says, “What am I supposed to do, Dean?” 

Sam looks at Dean like he might have answers to this impossible question, Sam’s long eyes pinched with worry at the outside corners. Ophelia has Sam’s eyes, alright, but a young Sam, Sam before he lost Jess and then Dad, and then Dean, and then his soul… and then, and then, and then. Always something. Always more to lose, and now Jack, with all his sweet nature and good intentions, has pried open Sam’s heart and crammed in one more person. 

“I guess…” Dean begins, glancing over to Cas, though between the three of them seated at the table, Dean has the most practical parenting experience. “I guess you just love her, man. You answer her questions if she’s got ’em. You try to make her feel safe, like you did with Jack.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Sam demands. “How? How are you okay with this?”

“To tell the truth, Sammy, I always thought you’d figure out a way to end up with the wife, the kid, the white picket fence and all that…” Dean shrugs. “So you only got part of that. It’s pretty much the best part, man. The kid, that’s the thing that makes you want to stick it out.”

Sam gives Dean a sad smile. Dean’s willing to chalk it up to the bourbon, rather than giving any real credence to who and what Sam’s probably thinking about. Enough years have passed for Dean to look back on Lisa and Ben—Jesus, the kid’s grown by now, probably off at college—without too much pain. Ben isn’t who springs to mind when Dean thinks about raising a child. Sam, only Sam and always Sam, is the one kid Dean Winchester actually raised right.

“Just love her and don’t give up on her, even when it gets hard. She’ll turn out just fine,” Dean says, downing the last of his bourbon. 

Sam nods, a faint smile barely turning up the corners of his mouth, but before he can say anything, footsteps echo in the hallway, coming closer, joined by hushed, but excited voices. Dean, Sam, and Cas all look to the doorway, where Jack and Ophelia appear, holding hands, Maggie hovering behind them like a fierce little chaperone.

“Doesn’t Ophelia look nice?” Jack asks, aiming his question at Sam. Ophelia does look nice. Maggie’s yoga pants must not have worked out, because Ophelia has on a pair of jeans, rolled at the cuff. Dean wonders who they might belong to, being narrow enough for Ophelia’s slender build, but long enough to require rolling. The jeans have been paired with Maggie’s t-shirt and Dean’s flannel, left unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. Her feet are still bare, and her toes move against the floor, curling and uncurling and stretching, like she’s still trying to get a real feel for this walking thing.

“You look great, kiddo,” Dean says to Ophelia, when it becomes clear Sam isn’t able to speak yet. Ophelia smiles like a sunrise. It’s brilliant and blinding. She’s the most Sam Winchester–looking thing Dean’s ever seen, like distilled essence of the little kid Sam used to be before he learned about monsters.

“Yes,” Cas says in agreement. “You did well, Jack and Maggie. Ophelia, you seem both comfortably and appropriately dressed for the occasion.”

Ophelia still eyes Cas with some lingering suspicion, but of course Sam’s kid would be polite, fear and mistrust or no. She dips her chin slightly in Cas’s direction.

“Thank you, Castiel,” she says.

“It’s alright if you call him Cas,” Jack says. He tugs on Ophelia’s hand, their joined hands swinging back and forth, back and forth. She must like it, or at least not mind it, because she allows Jack to continue. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Cas,” Ophelia repeats carefully, like she might forget it. “Thank you, Cas.”

“You’re welcome, Ophelia,” Cas says. 

“Come sit down,” Dean says. Maggie shakes her head. She looks like a girl who knows Winchester drama when she sees it. Smart kid. Dean grins at her, winks, and then watches her scurry off into the bunker. 

Jack guides Ophelia to a chair opposite Sam’s, then settles into the seat next to her, across from Dean and beside Cas. He eyes the cigars with interest.

“No way,” Dean says. “No kid of ours is smoking under my roof.”

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes upward, muttering ‘hypocrite’ under his breath. Dean watches Ophelia watching Sam with studious fascination, the same way Jack had observed and mimicked both Sam and Dean in the days following his birth. Ophelia rolls her own eyes like Sam did, and honestly, the resemblance is kind of creepy. Cas turns and leans forward to look past Jack at Ophelia. He puts on his ‘serious talk’ face. 

“Uh oh,” Dean whispers to himself. Jack glances at Dean with his eyebrows raised in alarm, but Dean shakes his head. _Nothing to worry about, kid, except Cas putting on his lecture pants_ , he thinks in Jack’s general direction. Jack doesn’t read minds, but he’s good at picking up on intent, and Dean is good at telegraphing it. They’re all going to let Cas speak his piece. It’ll be fine.

“Ophelia,” Cas begins. Jack and Ophelia both sit up straighter in their seats, not that either of them was slouching. “I was hoping you would tell us a little more about how you came to be here.”

Ophelia tilts her head to look at Jack, who smiles back at her in encouragement. Her brow furrows, two delicate arches coming together in concentration or dismay. Dean isn’t the only one who feels uncomfortable seeing the girl in distress, not with the way Sam is poised on the edge of his seat, barely restraining himself from intervening in Cas’s gentle interrogation before it even gets off the ground. 

“I…” Ophelia looks down at her hands. One is still linked with Jack’s. Her face relaxes. “I was alone in nothingness, and then I heard a voice.” Her eyes flicker up to Jack’s face. She smiles. “I followed it. It was Jack.”

Jack grins even wider. “It was me,” he agrees. 

Cas narrows his eyes. “When you say ‘nothingness’, are you talking about The Empty?”

Ophelia doesn’t look at Cas. She stays focused on Jack and doesn’t blink for far too long. Jack pats the hand he has clasped in his. 

“It was nothing. _I_ was nothing,” Ophelia says. 

“Do you know anything about your world? The one you would have been born into?” Cas asks.

“Had the Host allowed it, you mean?” Ophelia says, with a trace of bitterness in her soft voice. Cas sighs, letting his shoulders slump.

“I can’t say anything to you to make up for what my siblings’ counterparts in your universe did,” he tells Ophelia, “but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We were taught to fear children like you. I know now how very wrong that was.”

Ophelia lifts her chin. “My mother knew it was forbidden. She knew what would happen. She didn’t care. She and my father were in love.”

“What was her name?” Sam asks. Dean can tell he has a million questions, so this one must be the most important.

“Her name was Surimiel,” Ophelia says. “Her vessel was a woman named Brooke.”

“Brooke?” Sam says. “Wait. Brooke Hastings?”

“What, you know her?” Dean asks, and Sam nods.

“We went out a few times before I got together with Jess,” Sam says.

“Was she a vessel in our world?” Dean looks between Sam and Cas. Cas shakes his head.

“She may well have been a potential vessel, but the Surimiel I knew died over a millennium ago,” Cas says. “Even if this Brooke were the same woman you knew, she couldn’t have been Surimiel.”

“So, what? Ophelia’s from a timeline where Sam and Brooke—sorry, Surimiel—stayed together and had a kid?” Dean asks.

“Infinite possible universes,” Sam says softly. “Huh.”

“How far did the angels allow your mother’s pregnancy to progress?” Cas asks. Ophelia’s brows tremble with her distress, and she rapidly shakes her head.

“I don’t know when they came. I don’t know! My mother was so afraid, and my father was so angry!” Tears make her hazel eyes sparkle. They catch in her long eyelashes like tiny jewels. “I could hear it all. I felt it. He fought them, but to no avail. The Heavenly Host destroyed us, all three, starting with him.” A tear slides down her cheek, leaving behind a silvery track. “The last thing I felt before Jack called me back from nothingness was their despair.”

Sam sniffs. Dean looks at his brother and recognizes how hard Sam is working to hold back tears. Beside Ophelia, still gripping her hand tightly, Jack is openly crying with no apparent shame or self-consciousness. Even Cas looks abashed at having made her recount such a painful memory.

“Please forgive me,” Cas says. “I have clearly overstepped.”

Ophelia shakes her head. “I want everyone to be happy with me,” she says quietly. 

“She’s yours, alright,” Dean says to Sam in an undertone. He raises his voice and leans forward to address Ophelia. “We’re happy with you,” he tells her with all sincerity. “I know I couldn’t be happier to have a niece, and you seem like a pretty great kid. Sam here’s happy, too. Aren’t you, Sammy?”

Sam nods, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand. “I am. I’m so sorry you went through that. I’m sorry that I— that your parents in _your_ universe didn’t have anyone else there to help them or protect them, like we do here.” He sniffles again, giving his eyes another wipe. “I know I’m not the same Sam as the one from your world. I know it doesn’t make up for anything that happened to you, but I’m really glad to meet you, Ophelia. I’m really proud to meet you.”

Jack leans in close to Ophelia, and Dean just barely makes out, “See? I told you.” Ophelia smiles at Jack through her tears for a moment, and then turns that smile towards Sam. Dean can tell the moment it really hits Sam, the recognition of the Winchesterness of her, because Sam sucks in a startled gasp of air. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “She is ours, isn’t she? We’ll claim her.” Sam nods, unable to speak.

“Ophelia Winchester,” Jack pronounces. 

“Yes,” Ophelia says. “I like it very much.”

“That’s settled then,” Cas says, like this was all some sort of weird family interview process. “She’s going to need a room.”

“She’ll stay with me!” Jack says.

“Uh, that’s a hard no, pal,” Dean says.

Jack frowns. “Why not? You and Sam share a room when you travel. Castiel says you even shared a bed when you were children, so why—”

“Sure, when we were kids, yeah,” Dean says. “Ophelia’s a teenager, like you.”

“She’s newborn, and she’s my sister,” Jack insists.

“Your teenage-looking sister whose hand you’re holding an awful lot,” Dean points out.

“Dean,” Sam says, followed by a sigh.

Jack’s frown deepens. “But I’m just happy she—”

“You’re happy, Sam’s happy, we’re all happy!” Dean says, cutting in. “I know what teenagers get up to, though, and Ophelia hasn’t exactly had any kind of real—”

“Can I share with Maggie?” Ophelia asks, thankfully before Dean can finish explaining to Jack that Ophelia hasn’t had any sex ed and may or may not understand interpersonal boundaries and social norms in the same way as… well, as normal people, which may or may not include the extended Winchester family.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Cas says. “Maggie is a very kind and thoughtful girl.”

“That settles it, then,” Dean says firmly. “We’ll ask Maggie, she’ll say yes, and we’ll go about getting you some things of your own, alright?” Ophelia nods. Jack scowls, but doesn’t release her hand, which Dean has to acknowledge is a great example of not being as passive-aggressive as the rest of the family. Good on him. Maybe the connection between Jack and Ophelia is exactly as innocent as both kids seem to believe it to be. He hopes so, for everyone’s sake. 

Cas stands and starts making shoo-ing gestures, urging the kids up from the table, presumably to see about Ophelia’s rooming situation. Dean and Sam let Cas usher them towards the living quarters, both exhaling and slumping down in their seats. Dean pours another few fingers of bourbon into Sam’s glass, then his own.

“Wow,” Sam says, more a stunned breath than a word.

“Poor kid,” Dean says. “That was rough.”

“Right? And Brooke Hastings… I haven’t thought about her in years, but she was an angelic vessel.” Sam shakes his head. “I guess they were probably thinking about the lineage up in Heaven, making their plans.”

“Like we’re a couple of prize show dogs,” Dean says. He sips his bourbon more slowly now that the initial conversation with Ophelia is over and they have more information. He has time to think now, to mull over the implications of it all, and he hates the idea of discovering one more way he and Sam were used as angelic freaking chess pieces. 

“Didn’t work out, though,” Sam says. “I met Jess and it was all over. I never went out with Brooke again.” He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out in a whole-body sigh. “Maybe if I hadn’t ended things with Brooke…”

“Hey man, fuck that,” Dean says firmly. “That’s all beside the point, if this Surimiel’s been dead for a thousand years.”

“But what if I could have saved Jess? What if I could have—”

“No, Sammy. You can’t second guess that shit fifteen years after the fact,” Dean says.

“How do I not?” Sam asks. “It’s like our whole lives, everything we did, was all some kind of cosmic experiment. Like there’s a version of us out there for every single choice we made or didn’t make.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “And maybe there is, you know? But I say fuck ’em. Whatever other Winchesters are out there in other universes – fuck ’em. We’re the ones living in this universe. We’re the ones the kid came to. She came here. Jack got her _here_. We must be doing something right, man.”

“Team Free Will 3.0?” Sam smiles weakly at Dean, holding up his glass of bourbon.

“Hell yeah. Team Free Will 3.0,” Dean says as he clinks their glasses together.

“Sam! Dean!” Jack’s frantic shout suddenly comes from the hallway. “We need help!”

Dean and Sam are both out of their chairs in a split-second, Dean only a step behind Sam as they bolt towards the sound of Jack’s voice. They find him down the hall and around the last bend, halfway to Maggie’s room. Jack has one arm around Ophelia, his face pale with worry. She has both hands pressed to her stomach and a confused expression on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, immediately reaching for Ophelia and giving her the standard Winchester pat-down to check for injuries.

“She grabbed her stomach,” Jack says. “She said it hurts and it made a noise! I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Dean looks around in a panic, searching for Cas. When he finds him, though, Cas looks amused, not concerned. He has his lips pressed together like he’s forcing himself to not smile.

“What? You think this is funny?” Dean demands, as Sam inspects Ophelia’s belly for signs of a wound.

“I do, a little,” Cas admits.

“What is _wrong_ with you, man?” Dean asks, alternating between glaring at Cas and making sure Sam is checking for everything. “Sammy, did you feel her forehead? Is she feverish?”

“Dean,” Cas sighs.

Sam puts the back of his hand to her forehead while Jack seems uncertain what to do with himself, holding and releasing Ophelia’s nearest elbow. 

“She feels normal,” Sam says. “Is it some kind of warding, do you think?”

“Sam,” Cas says, a little louder.

“I’ll check for any new sigils,” Jack says, gently squeezing Ophelia’s elbow.

“Boys!” Cas shouts. Dean, Sam, and Jack all turn to look at him. Cas rolls his eyes towards the heavens, for all the fat load of good that’s gonna do him these days, and steps closer to Ophelia, speaking to her directly. “Ophelia. Would you please tell me what happened?”

“We were walking down this hallway, and I felt a discomfort in my abdomen,” Ophelia says.

“I see,” Cas says, nodding thoughtfully. “Can you describe the nature of this discomfort?”

Ophelia’s smooth brow furrows as she considers Cas’s question. “It felt… tight, and also somewhat… empty?” She looks to Jack for reassurance, though he looks way too busy panicking to offer anybody any comfort. “And then it made a sound!”

“What kind of sound?” Cas asks, his tone gentle, but still amused.

“It sounded like a growl,” Ophelia says.

“Whoa, wait, do you think she might have some kind of transdimensional parasite or something?” Dean asks. “Is that a thing that happens? How do you treat that? And what about possession? Can a nephilim even be possessed?”

Cas sighs the sigh of the spectacularly long suffering. “I know how to fix it.”

“You do?” Sam asks, his face lighting up with hope.

“Yes,” Cas says. “She needs a sandwich. She’s hungry, you idiots.”

“Ohhhh, yes, that makes sense,” Jack says, not even slightly embarrassed by his mistake. Sam, however, turns a particular shade of beet red that Dean doesn’t think he’s seen since his brother was in high school and still in the stage where everything his family did embarrassed him. If Dean can feel that his own face is maybe a little warm, so be it. This is his first time as an uncle. No wonder Bobby drank so heavily.

“Ophelia, we all apologize for the fright,” Cas says. “Jack can take you to the kitchen. You two should try a few different things and see what you enjoy most.”

Ophelia smiles at Cas, reaches for Jack’s hand, and then lets him lead her in the direction of the kitchen. 

As they walk away, Jack starts explaining to her, “My first food was candy. I highly recommend it. Sam likes something called a salad, though, which is primarily made from leaves. We should probably try both just in case you…” They round another bend, and Dean loses the rest of the sentence. 

“So I guess we overreacted a little bit,” Sam says.

“That’s parenting for you, man,” Dean says. “It’s like fifty percent freaking out over shit that’s not even that big a deal. The other fifty percent is realizing after the fact you shoulda freaked out way more than you did.”

“Huh,” Sam says. He shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. “That might have been the scariest minute of my entire life.”

“It was more like forty-five seconds,” Cas helpfully points out.

“Thanks for talking us down, buddy,” Dean says, clasping Cas’s nearest shoulder and giving him a rough, affectionate shake. Cas smiles warmly and allows Dean to rattle him around a bit.

“Suddenly finding yourself at the mercy of human bodily functions is kind of a specialty of mine,” Cas says. “When everything is new, any unexpected sensation feels like a crisis.”

“I guess we need to sit down with her and talk her through it,” Sam says. “Would you mind helping us with that, Cas?”

“I’d be honored. She is a Winchester, after all, and considering you’ve both done so much to help me adapt to human life when it was necessary, I look forward to repaying the favor.”

“Maybe you can handle the bathroom talk,” Dean says. “Last person I potty trained was Sam.”

“Hey!” Sam protests.

“What? You didn’t think Dad did it, did you?”

Sam huffs a strand of his hair out of his face. “Yeah, alright. That’s fair.” 

Something starts to dawn on Dean, like a creeping horror snaking its way up through his brain. “We need Mom back here, stat!”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m sure she’s going to want to meet her granddaughter.”

“Not even what I’m worried about, dude. _Periods._ Somebody is gonna have to explain periods to her!” Dean says.

“Oh God,” Sam says.

“I’ll call Mom. She can handle that, right? She’s tough,” Dean says.

Cas says, “Perhaps you could delay that part of the conversation until she actually returns to the bunker. She likely will—”

Whatever Cas is about to say is cut off by a sudden high-pitched shriek of angelic chatter. Pure white light fills the hallway, coming from one of the storerooms. The noise stops abruptly, and then a concerned voice Dean vaguely places as one of the Apocalypse World hunters says, “Uh. Can I get some help? There’s a naked little kid sitting on my crate of ammo.”

Dean sighs and heads towards the storeroom. “Well, I guess the fun’s not over yet.”


	3. Chapter 3

The kid is blond and moon-faced, in that nebulous age range between nine and twelve where size and age don’t necessarily have much to do with each other and thus tell you nothing, and looks like Claire Novak. Dean bites down on his own tongue to shut himself up and thinks _of course there’s a universe where Cas stayed with Jimmy’s wife_ , and hates himself, purely despises himself, for how bitter that thought tastes.

“Fear not!” says the little boy who isn’t _exactly_ a little boy, who looks like Cas wearing Jimmy Novak, down to the icy blue stare.

Dean already has the drill figured out. It took exactly one new arrival—Ophelia—for him to get over the vague conceptual strangeness of it and focus on the nitty-gritty. The hunting life’ll do that to you, he reckons. He does a ‘gimme’ hand in Sam’s direction, and Sam, God bless him, forks over his flannel without Dean having to say a word. Dean does his best to look non-threatening as he sweeps the shirt around the kid’s shoulders. Kid Novak seems a little more relaxed than Ophelia was, or maybe he’s just manifested in a body still young enough to unconsciously go with the flow, because he pokes his arms right into the sleeves and allows Dean to button the shirt up like an attendant waiting on a child prince.

“Hey Cas, buddy,” Dean says—casually, calmly, like it ain’t no thing. “So, pretty sure this one’s yours.”

“Oh,” Cas says, just that fragile little ‘oh’ that sounds like it was gut-punched out of him. Dean’s stomach knots up at it. _Jesus, Cas._

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You know.”

“I see,” Cas says. He stands up straighter and attempts to smooth down wrinkles in his clothes that neither God nor man is likely to successfully smooth.

“So, uh… you planning to introduce yourself or what?” Dean asks the kid, while at the same time, just behind him, Sam’s lightbulb turns on, and he suddenly exclaims, “Holy shit! That boy looks like Claire.”

“Yes. Well.” Cas looks profoundly uncomfortable. The bitter voice in Dean’s head says _good!_ but the rest of him wants to grab Cas by the shoulders and squeeze and shake and never let go until they’re both settled and grounded and okay again. Dean splits the difference with a single, lingering sympathetic shoulder squeeze.

“‘Hello, my name is Cas, and I’m an angel of the Lord, but not the kind that’s a dick’,” Dean whispers into Cas’s ear. The left corner of Cas’s mouth twitches up into an almost-smile. Dean’ll count that as a win, given the circumstances.

“Hello,” Cas says to the boy, much more formally than Dean’s script suggested. “I am Castiel, and I believe in some other universe, my counterpart was your father.”

The kid seems happy enough, robed in a below-knee-length flannel shirt and meeting this universe’s version of his father, but it’s nothing like how the introduction went with Ophelia. He seems neither awed nor frightened by this particular change of circumstances.

“I’m James Junior,” the kid informs them. 

“Aww, other-you named him after Jimmy. That’s sweet, buddy,” Dean says. Sam smacks him on the back of the head, but it’s worth it, breaking the tension.

“My mother didn’t know he was an angel,” James Junior says, leaning in conspiratorially. 

“She just thought he got kind of weird about God. My sister knew, though. She talked to me a lot. She said he was different because he was an angel now.”

“Your sister Claire?” Cas asks.

James Junior nods. “She was already big then. This size, I think,” he says, looking down at himself in all his flannel-clad glory. “I bet she’s all grown now, though.”

“She is,” Sam says, sounding happy to be on firm footing again. “We see her sometimes, or this world’s version of her. She’s great. A really good kid.”

“Saved our asses not that long ago,” Dean adds. James Junior looks happy to hear it, nodding his approval.

“I liked her. I wanted to know her better,” he says. “You should summon her here, so I can meet her in this world, too.”

“Yeah, well, summoning doesn’t work like that for humans, kid,” Dean says. James Junior shrugs, dismissing Dean and giving Cas his full attention.

“Castiel, let’s go get Claire,” James Junior says to Cas, holding out a hand. Cas’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t think that would be a wise idea, James Junior,” Cas says. “There is little love lost between myself and Claire Novak.”

“That’s dumb,” James Junior says. 

“Well, Claire would likely disagree with your assessment,” Cas says.

James Junior shrugs. “People can be wrong. Human people are wrong a _lot_.”

“She thinks I killed her father,” Cas says.

“Jimmy never did anything he didn’t want to do, and he wanted to be a vessel. Your vessel,” James Junior says. “Maybe if I talk to your Claire, she’ll understand better.”

“Not all versions of me are the same,” Castiel explains gently, crouching a little to put himself on eye level with James Junior. “I would imagine that’s true for all parties involved. Jimmy Novak in this world wasn’t always thrilled to be my vessel.”

“He didn’t kick you out, though,” the kid says.

“That’s true,” Cas concedes.

“And he never told you no.”

Cas shakes his head. “Never.”

“Then we just have to make Claire understand,” James Junior says. “She’s smart.”

“How about this?” Sam says, stepping forward. “I’ll give Jody a call and explain a little about what’s going on. She can tell Claire, and then Claire can decide what she’s comfortable with.”

James Junior appears to mull this over before nodding gravely. “Yes. Free will is very important. We should respect Claire’s.”

“Yeah, we should definitely do that!” Dean says, jumping into the conversation before Cas and James Junior get themselves involved in some kind of philosophical discussion that’s way above Dean’s pay grade. Though, to be fair, the pay grade at which Dean’s ready to delve into philosophy with a nine- or ten-year-old may not actually exist. That’s Bezos money, right there, at least.

“If we can’t see Claire, I want to see Jack,” James Junior says. 

“You know who Jack is?” Cas asks.

James Junior nods. “Of course. He called me. I’m glad, because being nowhere was really boring. I like being here a lot better.”

“Jack’s over in the kitchen with Ophelia,” Dean says. “Do you know her, too?”

James Junior purses his lips and twists them side to side as he thinks. “Hmm. Is she one of the others?”

“Yeah, she’s— oh, damn, this isn’t ever gonna not be weird, is it?” Dean says. He looks over at Sam, who shakes his head. “Yeah. So, anyway… Ophelia’s my alternate-reality niece, and Jack’s kinda like our collective kid, so I guess you’re all sorta related. Like cousins.”

James Junior squints at Dean. It’s a very Cas-looking squint.

“I’m not certain that was overly helpful,” Cas says.

“Then you explain it to him. He’s _your_ kid!” Dean says.

“Technically, he’s another Castiel’s child,” Cas says.

Dean throws his hands into the air in frustration. “Stop being so damn literal, Cas! You know what I mean!”

“Are they always like this?” James Junior quietly asks Sam, whom he’d apparently sidled up next to while Dean and Cas were talking.

“This?” Sam scoffs. “Oh, this is nothing. You should see them get going about boneless buffalo wings.”

“If they don’t have bones, they’re just chicken tenders!” Dean snaps.

Cas squints intensely. “Buffalo don’t have wings, so I still feel that arguing over semantics in this particular instance is—”

“They’re _from_ Buffalo. I swear, Cas, it’s like you do this on—”

“Is there any cake?” James Junior interjects, thankfully before Dean and Cas play out the entire buffalo wings discussion again. Dean’s head still hurts thinking about the last round.

“You want cake?” Cas asks.

“Wait. You know what cake is?” Dean asks.

James Junior nods. “It was the last thing I ate. Birthday cake. _My_ birthday cake.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up,” Dean says. “You ate cake?” James Junior nods. “So you got born?” James Junior nods again.

“I thought Jack was only looking for the ones the angels didn’t let be born,” Sam says.

“They didn’t let me be alive for very long, if that helps,” James Junior says. “It was only my first birthday. Castiel was able to keep me hidden for that long.”

“But you still lived a life, however brief, in another universe,” Cas says. 

James Junior nods. “That’s why I’m already good at my powers.”

“Shit. _Powers!_ ” Dean slaps his palm to his forehead. “We didn’t even think about Ophelia’s powers.”

Sam frowns, that forehead of his wrinkling itself into folds. “What kind of powers, James Junior?” 

James Junior grins. It’s the first time he looks completely like a normal kid. “Like flying and things,” he says. “Like this.”

James Junior disappears in a disproportionately large flap of wings, given his relative body size. He reappears quietly across the room, waving. Cas—the dummy—waves back, and then James Junior flaps off again. This time, he appears in the small top shelf space of a floor-to-ceiling munitions cabinet, curled up on hands and knees. He waves again, but this time Dean elbows Cas before he can wave back.

“Don’t encourage him!” Dean says.

“He has excellent maneuverability,” Cas says, a funny tone to his voice.

“He has— wait, you’re _proud_ of him!” Dean says. 

Cas attempts, but fails, to look contrite. “My own mid-flight adjustment was sorely lacking until the last few hundred years.” He _tsks_ and shakes his head. “That unfortunate incident in Pompeii.”

Dean’s mouth purses up into a weird sort of confused shape, because what the hell? “Cas, are you trying to say that Pompeii happened because you hadn’t learned to parallel park yet?”

“That’s grossly oversimplifying things,” Cas protests.

James Junior’s enormous, invisible wings flap, and then he’s between Dean and Cas, hands held up towards them.

“So about the cake?” he asks.

“Cake,” Dean huffs. He looks at Sam and points at him aggressively. “I blame you!”

“How is this my fault?” Sam asks. “He’s not even mine.”

“Oh, screw genetics. Me and Cas are pie people. Pie, Sam. Cake preference, that’s all you, man,” Dean says.

“I don’t think we have any cake, but we do have something called a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Cas says to James Junior, taking his proffered hand. “It’s _excellent_ , as far as edible collections of molecules go.”

“Yes, that sounds good. I didn’t get old enough for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before,” James Junior says. He and Cas begin walking towards the door, presumably to go to the kitchen in search of peanut butter. Dean knows for a fact they have three kinds: Jif crunchy, Skippy creamy, and that fancy natural kind that Sam likes, where you’ve gotta stir all the oil in every time, which is way more work than Dean’s willing to invest in a PB&J. 

“This is amazing,” Sam says, even more hushed and awed than after he met his own daughter. 

“What, Jimmy Junior?” Dean scoffs.

“Everything,” Sam says. “All of it. Who knows how many kids are out there? Who knows who’ll show up next? Or when!” He shakes his head in wonder. “How is this not completely blowing your mind?”

“Hey, my mind’s as blown as anybody else’s,” Dean says, “but neither of ’em were mine. It’s probably different, knowing they’re your coulda-been. Your ‘there but for the grace of Chuck’.”

“But aren’t you curious?” Sam asks.

“About them? Sure.”

“No, Dean. About the others. The ones that could be yours.”

Dean shakes his head, keeping the smile plastered on his face, even when the sledgehammer feeling of the _could be_ hits him hard. “Nah. You know me. I’m not the settling down type, and I always keep it wrapped up.”

“Dean,” Sam says, meaning _don’t bullshit me_.

“What?”

“You’re absolutely the settling down type.”

“Nope. Tried it and failed, remember? Not in the cards for me. Besides, I already raised a kid, and he turned out great,” Dean says. He elbows Sam in the ribs so he knows Dean means him. Sam laughs, and the sledgehammer-weight lightens.

“Yeah, but was that nature or nurture?” Sam asks.

“Dude, a demon literally fed baby-you demon blood because Mom made a deal with him before you were born,” Dean says. “You were born weird. That’s nature. I nurtured the _shit_ out of you.”

“Alright, alright!” Sam laughs. “Should we go check out the kitchen situation? I mean, three nephilim in one room has to be some kind of unique multiversal occurrence.”

“Huh. Maybe they’ll give us the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

Sam laughs again. “Maybe.”

“Though I’m telling you right now, if it turns out to actually be forty-two, that’s it for me, Sammy. I’m turning in my badge and gun, because I am too old for this shit!” Dean says.

“Whatever you say, Murtaugh,” Sam says.

“Joke’s on you, Sammy, ’cause that makes you Riggs, and Gibson’s batshit crazy,” Dean says.

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the nephilim,” Sam says. 

“Oh, I will, once they know what movies are and need to learn how to pick out good ones!”

Dean and Sam walk towards the kitchen. They pass the Apocalypse World hunter who had the first encounter with James Junior. He still looks spooked, not that Dean blames him. The folks from Apocalypse World have plenty of reasons to fear and mistrust angels and angel-adjacent things. No matter how great a guy Cas may be, or how big a help Jack has been, angels were still responsible for the near-extermination of humans in that universe. Dean knows a thing or two about angelic trauma. Shit like that doesn’t disappear overnight, or even over months, and the Apocalypse World people are well within their rights to be wary of the nephilim appearing in the bunker.

When they get to the kitchen, the scene is both weirder and more domestic than Dean expected. James Junior already has a PB&J on his plate, cut into four neat triangles with the crusts trimmed off. He chews on one triangle thoughtfully while Ophelia nibbles around the edges of another. She has a plate of various food in front of her, all with only one or two bites out of each item. Jack appears to be eating peanut butter M&Ms by the handful. Cas has a cup of black coffee.

“Everybody finding something they like?” Dean asks. “I can cook, if anybody wants burgers or spaghetti.”

“I like this,” James Junior says of his sandwich, taking a much larger bite. “Excepd id—” He makes a smacking sound with his mouth, the _thwick_ that any PB&J connoisseur knows means his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth with peanut butter, and that he’s trying to unstick it. James Junior wrinkles up his nose, his blue eyes widening with something that looks awfully close to panic. “Someding _thwick_ id _thwick_ wong!”

“Cas,” Dean says, crossing his arms and giving Cas a look of profound disappointment. “You didn’t even give the kid a glass of milk to wash it down with?”

“We were going to work up to dairy products,” Cas says in a small voice, hanging his head in shame. James Junior continues to make smacking, _thwick_ ing noises with his mouth until Ophelia pushes a glass of water across the table to him.

“Castiel was concerned about food allergies,” Jack says.

“Can nephilim even have food allergies?” Sam asks, eyeing Ophelia with mild concern.

“The baby books Kelly had all spoke at length on the appropriate intervals for introducing new foods, particularly those with common allergens,” Cas explains.

“Yeah, but James Junior isn’t a baby,” Dean says.

“But his body is newborn,” Jack says. “Castiel was just protecting him, like he would have done for me, if he hadn’t died when I was born.”

James Junior swallows his stubborn bite of sandwich with an audible gulp. “You _died_?”

“Didn’t take,” Dean says.

“Sort of a Winchester family trait,” Sam adds. 

“But Castiel isn’t a Winchester,” James Junior says. Dean snorts and thinks to himself, _Isn’t a Winchester? He’s the most Winchestery Winchester I’ve ever met._

“Yeah, well, angels don’t have last names, so we stuck him with ours,” Dean says, instead of what he’s thinking. “He’s a hundred-percent Winchester as far as we’re concerned.”

“He’s family,” Sam says firmly. “Same as if he were born into it.”

“I am also a Winchester,” Ophelia says.

“Damn right, you are,” Dean says. “Everybody in here’s a Winchester, like it or not.”

“I like it very much,” Ophelia says. Jack beams at her.

“Hmm,” James Junior says, clearly mulling it over. 

“James Junior Winchester,” Dean offers. “Come on, kid. You know it’s great.”

“I’ll think about it,” James Junior says, which speaking of…

“So, do we have to keep calling you ‘James Junior’?” Dean asks.

“It’s my name.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “but it’s a little, you know.” He looks at Sam for the assist.

“Unwieldy?” Sam suggests.

“Yeah. That.” Dean jerks a thumb in Sam’s direction. “What about just ‘James’, or maybe ‘Jim’ or something?”

“‘Jamie’,” Sam says.

“Or ‘J.J.’, maybe,” Jack says. 

“Or… maybe just ‘Junior’?” Ophelia says tentatively.

James Junior, to his credit, takes his time to think about it. He drinks his glass of water, eyes his remaining PB&J triangles with mistrust, and then hums softly to himself while gazing slightly upward like he’s hoping Heaven will give him the answer. The rest of them wait, and wait… and wait.

“No,” James Junior finally announces, after Jack and Ophelia have started fidgeting in their seats. “I like ‘James Junior’ just fine. Castiel named me that.”

“Okay, well, that’s settled then, I guess,” Dean says. “Cas, get your kid a glass of milk so he can finish his sandwich, will ya?”

Cas squints loudly at Dean first, but then he does get down a glass and pour milk into it. He places it in front of James Junior, then takes a half-step backward. James Junior hunches over to peer closely at the milk, and, after watching him for a couple of seconds, Ophelia does the same.

“It’s milk, not a Molotov cocktail,” Dean says.

“What’s a Molotov cocktail?” Ophelia asks.

“I think it’s a kind of grownup drink,” James Junior says.

“Ohhh,” Ophelia replies, the little indent above her upper lip flattening as the corners of her mouth turn down. Dean recognizes the expression – it’s impressed-Sam.

“No, it isn’t that,” Cas says. “We should discuss something else.”

“I want a milk as well,” Ophelia says, cutting her eyes over to Jack.

“Me, too,” Jack says immediately. “I’ll get milk for both of us.”

“Hell,” Dean sighs. “Milks all around, I guess.”

Jack starts to stand, but Dean waves him back into his seat. Sam follows Dean around the table instead to get down enough glasses for everyone. At this rate, they’ll have to hit the store sooner rather than later, just to restock on the essentials like bread and milk. Come to think of it, they also need things for the two newbies, like clothes and the right kinds of shampoo. Ophelia’s hair doesn’t look like a two-in-one’ll do the job, plus James Junior probably needs the special kid shampoo that comes in the blue bottle and smells like watermelon.

“Nearest Walmart’s in Concordia,” Dean muses aloud.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I was just thinking we probably need a bigger store, if we’re planning to get the kids set up with clothes and whatever other crap they probably need,” Dean says.

Sam nods. “We should also take a minute to make a plan.”

“A plan for?”

Sam gestures at the table, where James Junior has apparently tried his milk—the milk mustache is a dead giveaway—and passed it to Ophelia to try. She takes the tiniest possible sip while Sam watches her, his whole face lit up with a smile.

“We have to figure out what they know,” Sam says. “Can they read? Do they know how to take care of themselves? Can they fight?”

“They’re just kids!” Dean says.

“Yeah, and so were we,” Sam says. “We both know nothing out there cares how old they are. They have to be able to protect themselves.”

“But they’ve got powers,” Dean protests.

“Maybe. They have wings, sure, but what else can they do?” Sam asks. “Jack was strong enough to throw us back like we were nothing.”

“Only because he was scared!”

“I know that, and I’m glad our— _these_ kids aren’t scared, Dean, I really am, but what if it turns out James Junior’s freaked out by loud noises, or Ophelia’s terrified of…” Sam rolls his eyes a little, casting around for the right example.

“Clowns?” Dean suggests.

“Not ever gonna be funny,” Sam says. “Men with hats. What if Bobby comes in with a hat on and she blasts him across the room.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean says. “So we make a list. Stuff they need, stuff they can do. Maybe shit out there in the world’ll stay quiet and we can get this figured out.”

“We have to figure it out, quiet or not,” Sam says, looking back at the table. Ophelia doesn’t look like she enjoyed her taste of milk. Dean opens the fridge and gets a can of Coke out for her instead. Sam notices and frowns. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean says. “It’s not a beer. She obviously doesn’t like milk.”

“It’s full of sugar and caffeine!”

“Aw, Sammy, you sound like a dad already!” Dean grins at his brother before swaggering over to the table to plunk the Coke down in front of Ophelia and a glass of milk in front of Jack.

“What is it?” Ophelia asks Jack, instead of Dean. Dean frowns a little watching them, remembering him and Sam as kids, Sam always looking to Dean for approval before following their dad’s instructions. Drove Dad up the wall and usually led to him shouting at Sam about how _he_ was the adult, not Dean, until Sammy would get mad enough to cry. That, at least, won’t happen here.

“It’s a Coke. It’s good,” Jack explains. “It’s sweet and has carbonation.” Ophelia’s brows quirk up questioningly. “That means bubbles,” Jack adds. He reaches over to pop the tab of the can open. The hiss and fizz make Ophelia squeal in delight.

She takes a careful sip from the can, then blinks at it in surprise and wonder. “It’s sharp.”

“That’s the caffeine,” Jack says. “It’s the best part.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters.

“Hey, that was your idea,” Sam says, taking a seat at the table and handing Cas one of the glasses of milk he’s holding. Sam drinks from the other one. 

Dean would really like more of that good bourbon, but since it’s in the other room, he figures he can settle for milk, too. He pours himself a glass and sits next to Cas, who is next to James Junior; Ophelia, with Jack on one side and Sam on the other, is seated across from them. Whatever he may have told Sam, Dean really is the settling-down type, and this big, freaky family seated at the long kitchen table drinking milk and eating PB&J feels like a step towards the right kind of settling down.

He would be content to let their family moment play out however it’s going to play, but then he realizes someone is missing from this crazy tableau. He sighs quietly, not really wanting to disturb the peace, but aware that he’ll regret it later if they don’t follow up on the conversation they’d started before James Junior arrived. Dean looks at Sam, who looks back, joy coming out of his pores, he’s so happy.

Dean puts his phone on the table, sliding it to the midpoint between himself and Sam. “Rock-paper-scissors for who’s calling Mom?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Why did I think this was a good plan?” Dean asks Sam as they pull into a parking space in front of the Walmart Supercenter in Concordia, Kansas. He says it quietly, because Ophelia, Jack, and James Junior are all in the back of the Impala, none of them willing to leave the others and be split between the Impala and the shitty little Malibu Cas picked up somewhere along the way. 

Dean doesn’t exactly blame them. Baby’s backseat is wider than the Malibu’s—though not wide enough to also hold Maggie, like Ophelia wanted—and has the added bonus of not smelling strongly of hairspray. Dean suspects the Malibu’s previous owner must have lived by the ‘the bigger the hair, the closer to God’ philosophy; if that’s the case, she’s probably resting comfortably in Chuck’s scrawny bosom right about now, based on the lingering AquaNet funk. Hopefully Cas let Maggie roll the windows down.

“Team Free Will 3.0, remember?” Sam says. “They have to make some choices about who they want to be and what they like.”

“We could’ve just showed them the website,” Dean says.

“And had it shipped where, exactly?” Sam asks. “You can’t have that many packages sent to a PO Box, Dean.”

“Stupid, no-mailing-address bunker,” Dean says. Sam just laughs at him and gets out of the car, the three kids following.

Barely a minute behind them, Cas swings the Malibu, windows down, into the space across from the Impala. Maggie looks a little green around the gills, so either the hairspray smell withstood the lowered windows or Cas whipped into the lot too quickly. Ophelia waves at Maggie excitedly with one hand, the other clasped in Jack’s. James Junior doesn’t grab for Jack’s free hand, but stands close by, watching Cas exit the car. He gives Cas a friendly, though slightly less manic, wave.

“This is so crazy,” Sam says under his breath.

“Maybe we shoulda waited for Mom,” Dean says.

“What does Mom know about shopping for a 9-year-old and a teenager?” Sam asks. “Last kids she picked out clothes for were four and six months, and that was in the ’80s! Don’t be sexist.”

“I’m not being sexist. She’s a mom! Moms know what kind of stuff kids need,” Dean protests.

“She doesn’t even know about them yet!” Sam says, which, alright, point; they’d chickened out about calling her and settled on a slightly less emotionally fraught Walmart trip instead. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I can’t exactly picture James Junior in a shirt that says he ‘wuvs hugz’,” Sam counters. 

Dean watches James Junior carefully take Cas by the hand and begin walking towards the Walmart. “You think they have suits in kid sizes? Because that would be hilarious.”

“They probably do, but we’re only doing that if James Junior _wants_ a suit,” Sam says.

“You’re no fun!”

“I’m fun. I’m also a responsible adult,” Sam says, a little more smugly than the situation calls for.

“You’re a boring adult,” Dean says. “If we got him a suit, he could do our taxes.”

“We don’t _have_ taxes, Dean.”

“We might some day!”

Sam shakes his head. “We’re not buying James Junior a suit unless he asks for it.”

“Not even the kind with the shorts? I mean, if it’s good enough for Angus…” Dean raises his eyebrows. _Just agree with me, Sam, come on!_ is what that look says.

 _Not on your life, jerk!_ is what Sam’s return expression suggests.

“Why are their faces doing that?” Ophelia asks softly, watching Dean and Sam over her shoulder and letting Jack lead her towards the Walmart. 

“It’s just a thing they do,” Jack says. “Castiel says it requires more nuanced understanding than one could reasonably learn in a decade, and not to worry that my face doesn’t speak Winchester yet.”

“Ohhh,” Ophelia says, accepting it as a perfectly fine explanation, then turning back towards the Walmart. 

Beside Dean, Sam snickers.

“Hey, it’s your face, too!” Dean says. “And technically that makes it her face.”

Sam stops snickering.

Dean walks through the sliding doors of the Walmart Supercenter, snagging a shopping cart from the corral on his way in. He nearly runs it right into Ophelia, who stopped directly in front of the doors and is now gazing into the brightly-lit store with her mouth agape, Jack’s hand clenched tightly in her left hand and Maggie’s in her right. James Junior seems equally stunned, leaning into Cas’s side with his eyes widened in horror or wonderment.

“Yeah, so that’s about what I expected,” Dean says, ostensibly to Sam, but mostly just to say it aloud. 

“It’s so big,” Ophelia says.

“It’s so bright,” James Junior says.

“We should get soft pretzels!” Jack says, grinning as he starts dragging Ophelia, and by extension Maggie, towards the food counter between the grocery and regular sides of the Walmart. James Junior glances up at Cas briefly before following Jack and Ophelia. Dean thinks he hears the troubled rustling of feathers, but nobody takes off, at least. 

“That’s friggin’ amazing,” Dean says, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “A bunch of nephilim eating soft pretzels.” A completely relevant thought crosses his mind. “Hey, Sammy. Is there a— a— a whatchacallit, a word that means a group of something, like flock of birds, school of fish?”

“Collective noun?” Sam suggests.

“Yeah. Is there a collective noun for a bunch of nephilim?”

Sam _hmms_ to himself like he does when he's sorting through his mental nerd database. “I don’t know that there’ve ever been enough nephilim at once for anyone to come up with a collective noun.”

“Hey, guess what? We need one now!” Dean says.

“Angels are collectively a host—well, a garrison in smaller groups—but that’s probably not right for nephilim,” Sam says.

“They’re like an anti-host, almost,” Dean says. “Like, a guest.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it works like that, Dean.”

“Humor me, Sammy! How about, I dunno, a _freefall_.”

“A freefall of nephilim?” Sam asks, making dubious-looking eyebrows about it. “Really?”

“Why not?” Dean says. “That one book with the blue cover with the ugly-ass picture that’s supposed to be Lucifer on it says ‘nephilim’ translates to ‘fallen’ or maybe ‘those that cause others to fall down’, right?”

“You remember a passage from the _Angelus Reprobi_ , but not ‘collective noun’?”

Dean shrugs. “My mind works in mysterious ways, Sam. Gotta keep up.”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Whatever you say.”

“Plus, we’re Team _Free_ Will 3.o, right? And we’ve got like a hundred percent of the nephilim.”

Sam bobbles his head as he thinks it over. “Freefall of nephilim, huh?”

“Freefall of nephilim, Sammy.”

“Sam, Dean,” Cas says suddenly. Dean had sort of forgotten he was right there, probably listening to the whole conversation, because Cas has this way of focusing so hard on something—the kids in this case—that he goes almost as invisible as he did when he still had his wings. “The freefall of nephilim have nacho cheese sauce.”

“That’s gonna be messy. Oh, shit, they are _not_ dragging nacho cheese into my baby!” Dean says, squinting at the kids, who do seem to be dipping pretzels into the cup full of unmistakably bright-orange nacho cheese sauce in Jack’s hand. 

“I meant that it might not be compatible with trying on clothing,” Cas clarifies. 

“Trying on clothing?” Dean asks. “Why do they need to try it on? Can’t they just pick what they like, like normal people?”

“Do you know their sizes?” Sam asks, pursing his lips for a Sammy Knows Everything lecture. 

“Okay, not Ophelia’s, maybe,” Dean says, “but James Junior’s a 10–12.”

Sam’s face twists up in surprise. “Huh?”

“Youth medium, Sammy. I may not know about chick sizes, but I’ve picked out clothes for you and B— at least one other boy that size, and James Junior is definitely a youth medium. The small would cut off at his ankles.”

“Perhaps Maggie should take Ophelia to the young women’s section, and you can assist me with James Junior, as you have experience in this arena,” Cas says.

“Tiny suits, Sam,” Dean stage-whispers. Sam makes a face like he’d like to die or point out Dean’s lack of formal education, or something else spoil-sporty and rude, but he keeps a lid on it. 

“I can go with Ophelia and Maggie,” Sam says.

“Good call,” Dean says. “They’ll need a clothes rack to hang all their stuff on.”

“Ha ha,” Sam says, _not_ laughing. “I meant to help them pay for everything when they’re done.”

“Oh, man, we should have budgeted for this ahead of time. I’ve been trying not to use the cards in a hundred-mile radius,” Dean says.

Cas reaches into his pocket and fishes out a silver credit card. “Errol Flynn will be paying for this shopping trip, which feels somewhat inappropriate.”

“ _Charge of the Light Brigade_ ,” says Sam, at the same time Dean says, “ _Dodge City_!”

“I was referencing his statutory sexual assault of two young women in the early 1940s,” Cas says. “Hence, why it’s inappropriate.”

“Cas, man, do you gotta ruin everything?” Dean asks.

“Though, I suppose it could be seen as a sort of cosmic recompense,” Cas continues, ignoring Dean. “Providing for Ophelia and Maggie, I mean. As they are both young women who could have ostensibly been wronged by Errol Flynn, had they lived in the 1940s.”

“Yeah, we got it, Cas,” Sam says, shifting uncomfortably foot-to-foot. He makes eye contact with Dean and tips his head in the girls’ direction.

“Yeah,” Dean tells him. “Probably better to just—”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, then takes the cart and galumphs off towards the kids to steer them to their requisite Winchester for the shopping experience. Separating them is about as easy as Dean expected, too, meaning Jack keeps leaning at weird angles to watch Ophelia and Maggie go with Sam, and James Junior demonstrates an almost-angelic understanding of personal space by walking so close behind Jack that he steps on Jack’s heels twice. The second time, Jack’s shoe flies off his foot, and he barely manages to catch his balance in time to avoid spilling out into the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, leaning over to scoop up Jack’s shoe. “A freakin’ freefall.”

“Hello, Castiel,” James Junior says to Cas.

“Hello, James Junior,” Cas says.

“Hello, Dean,” James Junior says to Dean.

“Yeah, hi kid,” Dean says, handing the shoe to Jack. “Ready to pick out some underoos?”

James Junior shakes his head. “I don’t know what those are. I would like to pick some clothing, instead.”

Dean sighs, smiling in way that doesn’t look too pained. “Underoos are— you know what? Yeah, let’s get those clothes. Cas, you got a list or something?”

Cas pulls a neatly printed paper list out of his pocket. Dean could just about kiss him for being the only person actually prepared for this trip. He pats Cas on the back a little too vigorously instead, and neither of them probably enjoys it as much as the not-dwelling-on-it, _get it together, Winchester_ alternative. 

Cas tries and fails to unrumple his coat before proceeding to read the list aloud. “Five pairs of pajamas, fourteen pairs of underwear—”

“Fourteen?” Dean interrupts. “Dude, he’s like nine! He’s not gonna make a mess in ’em.”

“I was considering the additional laundromat costs when the children start hunting with us,” Cas says. “We can’t always go back to the bunker to wash clothes between jobs, and adding at least two more people would doub—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up.” Dean puts his hand in the middle of Cas’s chest to stop him. Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, then up at his face.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas asks.

“We’re not taking the kids hunting with us,” Dean says. “They’re just, man, they’re just _kids_!”

“You hunted as a child,” Cas says.

“Because I had to. We didn’t have anything else,” Dean says.

“Jack hunts,” Cas says, “and he is technically a child.”

“All of you helped me learn,” Jack adds.

“But he doesn’t look like a kid,” Dean says.

“So this is an issue of appearances?” Cas squints, and Dean can’t quite catch the tone of it. 

“Partly, yeah. Child services could be an issue, for starters,” Dean says. “Me and Sam, we knew how to lie and keep people from snooping around. You’re telling me you think Ophelia’s gonna pick that skill up fast? James Junior, maybe, but come on, Cas.”

“Lying is part of the job,” Cas says. “You’re the one who taught me that, Dean. You can teach Ophelia that, too.”

“Well, maybe I want better for these kids, alright?” Dean scrubs his hands through his hair. “Jesus, Cas. It’s not like Jack had much of a choice, and you know me and Sam never did. I just want Ophelia and James Junior to have a, a choice, just some freakin’ _options_ , okay? I don’t want Sam’s kid to have to grow up like we did. I don’t want James Junior to have to grow up like Claire.”

“You said Claire is a really good kid,” James Junior says.

“She is, kid, I didn’t mean it like that,” Dean tries to explain, but James Junior balls up his fists and rests them on his hips, standing up surprisingly tall.

“You _said_ Claire saved your asses,” James Junior says. 

“She did, but that doesn’t mean she should’ve had to,” Dean says. “Cas. Come on, man. Tell him.”

Can hunkers over, hands on his knees, so he can look James Junior in the eyes. “We did try to prevent her from hunting at first. Dean is correct that’s it’s not something I wanted for her. I wanted her to be safe.”

“The three of you taught me how to hunt so that I _could_ be safe,” Jack says. “You knew someone would come after me, angels or demons, so you taught me how to protect myself, and how to protect other people. Ophelia and James Junior should know how to do that.”

“So we’ll train them, but I’m not packing up a 9-year-old kid and a 15-year-old girl and dragging them out there to look for werewolves and vampires,” Dean says, looking between Jack and Cas, and wondering how the hell this has gone off the rails so fast. “How the hell am I supposed to keep them safe out there?”

“Dean,” Jack says gently, putting his hand on Dean’s arm. 

“No, Jack, you don’t get it, okay?” Dean says as he jerks his arm away. “It’s not just you anymore. There’s three of you now, and we have to keep you safe, and that means not putting you in the middle of the shitstorm for no reason!”

Cas frowns. “Dean, I’m not advocating for dropping the children in a vampire nest with no training—”

“Maybe we should talk a little quieter,” Jack suggests.

“Then what are you saying, Cas?” Dean says. “Because it sounds like you’re—”

“Stop fighting,” James Junior says.

“—and you should know me better than that,” Cas says, louder. “I would never put the—”

Jack’s eyes dart between Dean and Cas’s faces. “People are starting to look at us.”

“Well, apparently that’s just _fine_ according to Cas here, because—”

“I said, stop fighting!” James Junior shouts, eyes flashing golden, and suddenly Dean’s stricken mute. His mouth moves, and he can still breathe, but no sound comes out, his throat too tight for any noise to pass. He stares at James Junior with wide eyes before glancing up at Cas, whose mouth is also silently forming words.

“Wow, that’s a really good power,” Jack says, nodding to himself. 

“Thank you,” James Junior says. “I don’t like this fighting at all, and I want it to stop now, please.”

Cas and Dean glare at each other for a second, then Cas nods his head. James Junior looks expectantly up at Dean. After one more good scowl in Cas’s direction, Dean slowly nods, too. James Junior exhales in relief, and Dean feels the strange tightness leave his throat.

“That’s, uh. That’s a hell of a party trick,” Dean says.

“It’s not a trick. I’m serious. No more fighting,” James Junior says.

Cas clears his throat. “I apologize, James Junior,” he says, flicking his gaze up to Dean, then away again. “This discussion is better suited for the bunker, when everyone can sit down and address this together. Isn’t it, Dean?”

“Right,” Dean says tightly. “So, how many pairs of socks does the kid need, Cas?”

Cas squints down at his list. “At least two dozen. Wet socks make everything substantially worse.” He speaks directly to James Junior and adds, “You wouldn’t think so, but it’s one of the greatest trials of having a corporeal form.”

Two twelve-packs of socks, several packs of underwear, and a large stack of shirts, jeans, pajamas, and two jackets later—all piled into Dean’s arms, as Cas seems to be incapable of doing more than holding the list and giving instructions—they finally find themselves wandering through a section of dress clothes. Dean crosses his fingers under the pile of clothing, because dammit, James Junior in a tiny suit might be the one thing that could cheer him up right now.

“Hmm,” James Junior says, pausing in front of a rack of gaudy sports coats in Easter egg colors. He looks up at Dean, who gives a tiny shake of his head while Cas isn’t looking, then tips his head to the side towards a rack of suits. James Junior shuffles over to the suits and picks at the lapels of a dark grey coat on the hanger in front of him.

“That’s a nice choice, James Junior,” Dean says, shooting for both neutral and respectful, just in case James Junior decides he’s still tired of hearing them talk.

“Do you like it, Castiel?” James Junior asks Cas. Can leans down to regard the suit closely.

“It’s very similar to mine,” Cas says. “You’ll require your own necktie, however. Any of ours would be too long.” 

“Okay,” James Junior says. “Let’s look at the neckties, too, then.”

“Yes!” Dean says under his breath. Jack cuts his eyes over to Dean in confusion, and Dean mouths ‘mini Cas’ back at him. Jack snickers. Meanwhile, Cas and James Junior have found a small display of ties, both regular and bow varieties, as well as suspenders and belts. James Junior has a blue necktie in one hand and a bright purple bowtie in the other.

“This one looks like yours,” James Junior says, indicating the blue necktie.

“That’s true, but yours doesn’t have to look like mine,” Cas says.

“I like the color of this one, but the shape seem wrong,” James Junior says.

“Good taste,” Dean mutters to Jack. “Knew the kid was smart.”

“What about this one?” Jack says, picking up plain black tie. Dean keeps the lid on a groan, because come on, think outside the box, Jack! James Junior shakes his head at it, though.

“No. It’s too boring,” he says. His eyes suddenly light up, and he points. “This one!” 

Dean follows the line of James Junior’s finger straight to an orange and blue plaid necktie. He can’t stop himself from grinning as James Junior picks up the tie and solemnly hands it to Castiel, who seems to have found the correct size of gray suit on the rack. 

“Alright, so, we done?” Dean asks. “Can we move on to toiletries now? Maybe get that cart back from Sam and the girls so I can put all this stuff down?”

Cas peers at his list again before nodding. “Yes. I’ve crossed off every item of clothing on the list.”

Dean sighs. “Good, because I—”

“Wait,” Cas cuts him off. “We forgot shoes.” 

“Shopping cart first, then shoes, okay?” Dean says. 

“I’ll go and get us a new shopping cart,” Jack says, sprinting towards the front of the store like he can’t wait to get away from clothing shopping, not that Dean can blame him. James Junior begins strolling towards the shoe section, leaving Dean and Cas behind, alone.

“Dean,” Cas says, looking down at his feet. “I— I apologize for suggesting we might bring the children on hunts.”

“We’re talking about it back at the bunker, remember?” Dean says.

“I know that’s what we agreed, but I can tell that you’re still unhappy with me.”

Dean shrugs. A pack of socks tumbles to the ground. “Yeah, well, I’m not always gonna be happy with you, Cas. Figured you knew that by now.”

Cas stoops to pick up the socks, carefully balancing them on top of the pile again. “But in this instance, I didn’t stop to consider your feelings.”

“Well, they’re not my kids,” Dean says. He shifts the pile so it partially obscures Cas’s face, which means he only sees half of Cas’s frown in response. 

“Dean…” Cas begins, but trails off into a sigh as Jack returns with the cart.

“Thanks,” Dean says to Jack, unceremoniously dumping his armload of youth mediums into the cart. He reaches for the handle, but Jack won’t let go of it. “Dude.”

“I’m in charge of the cart now,” Jack says. He squares up like he thinks Dean’s going to throw a punch over shopping cart rights. 

“You’ve got the cart, Cas’s got the list, so what does that leave me?” Dean asks.

Cas gestures at James Junior, standing wide-eyed between two long aisles of shoes. “Well, you _are_ the expert in children’s clothing.”


	5. Chapter 5

“That’s… a lot,” Sam says, staring at the huge pile of Walmart bags covering nearly the entire surface of the map table. The kids have disappeared into the bowels of the bunker, Ophelia and Maggie with a bag of hair and skin-care products, Jack and James Junior with clothes for James Junior and a third soft pretzel each. 

“That is four hundred and thirty-seven dollars’ worth of clothing and personal hygiene products for two nephilim children,” Cas says, unfolding the receipt and placing it on the one empty spot of table. “Not counting what was spent on soft pretzels, which was a not inconsiderable sum.”

“Where are we gonna put all this shit?” Dean asks.

“Ophelia and Maggie seemed certain that Maggie’s room could accommodate Ophelia’s new belongings,” Cas says, eyeing the pile dubiously.

“I guess Maggie would know,” Dean says. “Still.”

“Where are we putting James Junior?” Sam asks. 

“We aren’t exactly short of space, even with the Apocalypse World folks,” Dean says.

“Feels like he shouldn’t be alone,” Sam says, big sad eyes on Dean saying _because I wouldn’t have wanted to be_ , which Dean fully appreciates. James Junior didn’t exactly come here with much, but they can all do him better than was done for Sam. 

“What do you think, Cas?” Dean asks. Cas doesn’t look up from the tableful of clothes, just lifting and dropping his shoulders in a half-ass shrug. “Well, gee, Cas, thanks for the input.”

Cas sighs. “This feels enormous.”

“Well, yeah, it’s over four hundred dollars worth of stuff, man,” Dean says, but Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“Not that-this. _This_ -this,” Sam says, making an all-encompassing gesture with his other hand. “The kids. All of it.”

“I thought my time with Jack had equipped me to be a father,” Cas says quietly, “but now I feel woefully underprepared.”

“Jack came here Jack-sized,” Dean says. “That made it a little easier. He didn’t look…” He looks at Sam, raising his eyebrows to prompt him.

“So fragile,” Sam says. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder once, then lets go.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know they’re not. I know they’re strong. Still.”

“Plus there’s the whole part where they’re _yours_ , you know?” Sam says. “I still can’t really— I’m not sure it’s caught up with me completely, what that means. I don’t look at Ophelia and see _myself_ there.”

“Only ’cause you never spent that much time looking at yourself,” Dean says. 

“The resemblance is fairly uncanny, excluding a few minor details,” Cas agrees. “But James Junior looks like Claire. He looks like Jimmy. If he resembles me at all on an astral level, I can’t say, but he doesn’t look like—”

“The hell he doesn’t!” Dean says. “That kid’s like a mini-you.”

“Physical similarities are—”

“No, Cas. Dean’s right. It’s not the features. It’s the everything. He moves like you,” Sam says.

“Talks like you,” Dean says. He looks at Sam, gesturing at Cas. “The head thing.”

“Totally,” Sam agrees, smiling. “It’s a little creepy, honestly. He even holds his shoulders like you do.”

“Like his coat weighs too much,” Dean says. Cas purses his lips and squints, but if Dean were a betting man—which he sometimes is, given the right circumstances—he’d bet it was a pleased sort of squint.

“I don’t think either one of us expected we’d be fathers at this stage of the game,” Sam says. “It’s a lot.”

“Accurate,” Cas says.

“So where are we gonna put the kid, Cas?” Dean asks. He takes a step towards Cas and nudges him in the side with an elbow. “Eh? C’mon, it’s not that hard. Doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Cas exhales slowly, looking down the long table full of clothing again. “We can ask him if he’d like to stay with Jack, but if not, we could set up a cot in my room. He would probably be more comfortable with one of us.”

“There you go,” Dean says, clapping his hands on both of Cas’s shoulders from behind and giving him an encouraging shake. It’s easy to let his hands rest there, Cas warm and solid under his palms, and Dean isn’t going to overthink it, just take the easy win. They solved the problem. Hell, they solved _two_ problems, if you take the clothes situation into account. 

“These decisions are more difficult than I anticipated,” Cas says. Dean squeezes his shoulders and leans in just a little.

“Yeah, well, what can you do?” Dean asks. 

“Have someone else make the decisions instead,” Cas says.

Dean releases Cas’s shoulders. “What? Cas, no that was just hypothetical,” he says. “Come on.”

“You asked what I could do, and that’s what I could do,” Cas insists. 

“Christ, you’re bad at this,” Dean says. 

“I know!” Cas says, taking a seat at the table. “That’s why someone else could make the decisions instead. It would be much easier that way, and I believe I might prefer it.”

“Well, tough shit, man,” Dean says. “Sam. Back me up here.”

Sam puts up both his hands. “I can’t exactly blame him,” he says.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Dean asks Sam, who shakes his head slowly. “We just had this big heart-to-heart moment, and you’re both gonna puss—”

“Father?” Ophelia asks from the library steps. Dean, Sam, and Cas all whip their heads in her direction in response, and Dean can tell all three of them are resisting the urge to chorus “Yeah?” at her. _Three Men and a Nephilim_ , Dean thinks. 

“Uh, yeah, yes,” Sam says. “What did— Can I help you with something, Ophelia?”

Ophelia nods. “Yes. I have misplaced Maggie.”

Sam blinks a few times before answering. “Oh. Oh, okay, yeah. She’s probably— I mean, did you check the bathroom? She might, uh. She could be—”

“No,” Ophelia interjects. “I mean, _I_ misplaced her.”

“You misplaced her?” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Ophelia says.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Sam asks, looking over at Dean with a panicked expression.

“I mean I am not sure where I put her,” Ophelia says.

“Uh,” Sam says, blinking again, mouth gaping like a stunned fish. “I, uh.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure where you _put_ her?” Dean asks. “Did you shove her in a closet or something? Put her in a box?”

Ophelia’s cheeks turn dark red. “She. She startled me. I didn’t mean to.”

“Ophelia, what did you do?” Cas demands. The room fills with the rippling-fabric sound of wings. Dean lunges forward and catches Ophelia by the wrist before she can fly off.

“Uh-uh,” Dean says. “You stay right here.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Ophelia repeats, her eyes filling with tears. “I was just watching her. I didn’t mean to get so close. I didn’t mean to…”

“Ophelia,” Sam says, approaching her slowly with his hands up, all _look, no harm_ at her. “Did you do something to Maggie?”

“I— I—” Ophelia breathes rapidly, tears streaming down her face. The beating of wings gets louder, and Dean feels like he’s trying to hold onto a boat while the tide tries to pull it out to sea. 

“It’s okay,” Sam says softly, calmly.

“Her eyelashes made such pretty shadows on her cheeks,” Ophelia whispers. “I put my lips on them, and then she made a noise and it startled me, and then she was just— she was gone!”

“Well shit,” Dean says.

“What?” Cas asks him.

“Wasn’t Jack we had to worry about, apparently,” Dean says under his breath. “Ophelia’s got a crush on Maggie, and apparently she just kissed her into another dimension.”

“Oh dear,” Cas says. 

Sam’s eyes are wide and definitely way down the road to panictown, but he does a great job of keeping his voice even. “So, uh. Accidents happen, right? You didn’t mean to… send Maggie away anywhere?” Ophelia shakes her head. “Okay. We just have to figure out where—”

Someone starts banging on the front door of the bunker, a loud _bam, bam, bam_ , like hammers. Dean releases Ophelia’s wrist and rushes up the stairs to pull the door open, only to find Maggie standing there, her long hair blown all around her head and snarled with leaves, a smear of dark earth on her cheek, but otherwise completely unharmed. 

“Well, uh. Hey, kid,” Dean says to her.

“What just happened?” Maggie asks in a frantic, high-pitched whisper.

“I think Ophelia kinda likes you?” Dean offers.

Maggie shakes her head, just barely. “No, that part’s fine, but _how did I get outside_?”

“I think she kinda likes you… a lot?” 

“Maggie!” Ophelia cries. “Maggie! Are you well? Are you whole?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie says, coming into the bunker. Dean shuts the door behind her. “Just confused.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Ophelia says. She runs to Maggie and puts her hands gently on the sides of Maggie’s face, leaning in and peering closely at her, as if checking for concussion or something similar. 

“It’s okay,” Maggie says, with a breathy laugh. Ophelia pats her cheeks and then her hair. _Feeling for injuries_ , Dean thinks, or maybe just touching her to touch her. “Just try not to zap me anywhere dangerous, okay?”

“Okay,” Ophelia agrees solemnly. She tips her head forward to rest her forehead against Maggie’s. 

“So,” Dean says, looking at Sam.

“Wow,” Sam says.

“Yeah, so Ophelia’s got zappy powers, and also, she’s maybe a little gay,” Dean says. 

“Oh wow,” Sam says, dropping into an empty seat at the map table.

“But, uh, positive note, you don’t have to worry about her getting pregnant, right?” Dean says. “So that’s something.”

“Ohhh my God, Dean, really?” Sam says, dropping his face into his hands and sort of shaking his head side to side. 

“And Maggie’s a nice girl, so that’s uh. You know, like, that could be worse?” Dean says.

“Just stop talking,” Sam groans. 

“Maggie is a delightful girl,” Cas says. “Plus, they’re already living together, which gets that out of the way.”

“Cas, in what world is that helpful?” Dean asks.

“Ophelia? Maggie?” Jack’s voice comes from up the stairs, followed shortly by Jack himself. “Has anybody seen— oh, there they are!”

“Ophelia’s kinda got a crush on Maggie,” Dean tells Jack. Jack beams at the girls like he’s personally responsible for setting them up, which is at least slightly possible. 

“I know,” Jack says. “Maggie’s very nice and smart, so I think Ophelia made a good choice.”

Yeah, definitely at least a _little bit_ possible. 

“Damn, Sammy. You’ve barely had a kid for twenty-four whole hours, and you’ve already got in-laws,” Dean says.

Sam doesn’t lift his head out of his hands, so his mumbled “Dean, I am going to murder you and bury your body so deep in the woods, so help me—” isn’t particularly threatening. 

“It’s Jack’s fault,” Dean says. “He set them up.”

“Very noble, Dean,” Cas says, looking unimpressed. “Throw Jack onto the bus.”

“ _Under_ the bus,” Dean says. “I’m throwing him _under_ the bus.”

“We’re getting another bus?” Jack asks.

“What’s a bus?” Ophelia asks, not moving her forehead away from Maggie’s.

Before Dean can explain—though he’s not totally sure if he’s explaining what a bus is or that they’re not getting one—the piercing sound of angelic speech fills the bunker, along with brilliant white light. The light gradually resolves itself into the shape of a woman standing on the top of the stairs leading up to the bunker’s door, her back to them. 

His vision still blurred from the afterimage of the light, Dean can’t quite make out what he’s seeing. The woman has long hair cascading down her shoulders to below her hips. She has an angel blade gripped in her right hand. As she starts to turn, she looks almost like…

“Mom?” Dean says. The woman whips all the way around and throws the blade. Dean barely ducks in time for it to go sailing over his head and embed itself into the wall, where it vibrates and emits a clear ringing tone. Her eyes glow golden. 

“Fear not!” snarls the definitely- _not_ -Mom, definitely-a-nephilim woman, and she manages to make ‘fear not’ sound like a terrifying threat. She thrusts her empty right hand up into the air, eyes flashing, and suddenly the angel blade is in her hand again instead of in the wall. 

“Son of a _bitch_!” Dean says, hooking his arm around Jack and throwing them both to the ground before the nephilim flings her blade again. Dean feels the rush of wind as it passes over them and bounces off the edge of the doorway.

“Stop!” Jack calls from the floor. “They aren’t going to hurt you!”

“I seek Jack of the Winchesters!” the woman shouts in response.

“I’m Jack!” Jack says. “That’s me! I’m here, with the Winchesters and everything. It’s okay!”

The woman stills, that uncanny stillness that only the not-quite-mortal seem to manage. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. She doesn’t look as much like Mary as Dean first thought, though the resemblance is strong. Her hair is several shades darker, closer to light brown than blonde, and her eyes are green, not blue, now that the nephilim gold has faded. She has a spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Unlike Ophelia and Jack, she looks grown, closer to Dean and Sam’s age. 

“Uh, Dean?” Sam says quietly, from where he’s hunkered down under the end of the map table. He must have ducked under it when the blade started flying.

“Not now,” Dean says, waving Sam away. Sam presses his lips together and shoots his _Really, Dean?_ look in Dean’s direction. Luckily, Dean’s great at ignoring that look, so he does exactly that.

“You called for me,” the nephilim woman says.

“I did,” Jack says. He wiggles out from under Dean’s arm and slowly stands, hands open in front of him to display harmlessness or lack of weaponry, Dean figures. “And you’re here. Hello.”

“Where is this place?” the woman demands.

“This is the Men of Letters bunker. We live here,” Jack says.

“Who is ‘we’?” the woman asks.

“Me, Castiel—”

The nephilim’s head bird-tilts to the side. “Castiel? Of the—” She says something unfamiliar and therefore completely indecipherable in Enochian. “—garrison?”

“Yes, that was my garrison,” Cas says. He has an armful of Walmart bags held in front of him, like flimsy blue plastic and a wad of Garanimals is going to protect him from Our Lady of Swords here. 

“Who else?” the woman asks, with slightly less hostility, but possibly slightly more suspicion.

Jack glances at Dean, who nods encouragingly, before he continues. “Uh, Sam and Dean Winchester, their mother, Mary, a bunch of hunters from—”

“Mary Campbell Winchester? Bring me to Mary Campbell Winchester!” the nephilim says, her voice echoing through the room. Dean looks back at the angel blade in time to watch it fade out of existence. When he looks back at the woman, the blade is in her hand again. He realizes that she, like the other nephilim, arrived naked, but her long hair and the fact she was hurling swords through the room gave her the illusion of being not only clothed, but armored. 

“Uh, so Mary’s not here right now,” Jack says. “She’s been on a hunt for a couple of weeks.”

“Is there a reason why you need to speak to our mother?” Sam asks from under the table, big friggin’ coward.

“Your mother?” the woman asks, then repeats, with growing confusion and a slight hint of pissed-off’ness. “Your _mother_?”

“Yes?” Sam answers, flinching. He looks at Dean, who mouths _What the fuck?_

“ _Your_ mother,” the woman says once more. 

“Yeah, that’s what he said,” Dean says. “ _Our_ mom, Mary Winchester. I’m Dean, that’s Sam cowering under the table.”

“Who is your father, Dean, Son of Mary Campbell Winchester?” the woman asks.

“What’s it to you?” Dean asks, at the same time that Sam, the under-the-table-hiding traitor, says, “John Winchester.”

“But not as the vessel of Michael,” the woman says, blinking her green eyes at them slowly.

“No,” Dean says. “I mean, yeah, Michael wore our dad, like, _briefly_ , but that was back in—”

“Nineteen-seventy-eight,” the woman says. 

“Right,” Dean says. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whispers sharply. “Don’t you think she kind of looks like y—”

“And upon Mary Campbell Winchester, he fathered a child,” the woman says.

“Uh, no, not in our timeline,” Dean says. “My mom was already pregnant with me when Michael possessed Dad.”

“Dean!” Sam says. 

Dean turns to give Sam a fresh faceful of _what the fuck_ , but Sam has gone pale and big-eyed. “What, man?” Dean asks him instead.

“I think she’s, you know, _you_ ,” Sam says.

“What do you mean, she’s me,” Dean says. “I’m me. She’s her. You don’t make any sense.”

“Michael fathered a child on Mary Winchester in nineteen-seventy-eight, right?” Sam says louder, addressing the nephilim woman. She nods. “And you’re that child?” She nods again. “Do you have any brothers? Or maybe sisters?”

“I am the only offspring of the Archangel Michael and Mary Campbell Winchester,” the woman, who — wait, shit, if she’s the daughter of Mary Winchester, and Michael was possessing their dad, then that means…

“Oh my God, you’re our sister,” Dean says.

“Dude, she’s _you_ ,” Sam says. “Or, she was born instead of you. She’s her universe’s version of you.”

“She ain’t me,” Dean says, more terse than he meant to sound. “She’s herself. So what, so Mom and Dad didn’t have us. She’s _not_ us. She’s our sister.”

“You are the sons of Mary Campbell Winchester,” the woman says, lowering her sword. Her hands shift and stretch like she’s trying to scratch her back, and the blade dissipates into nothingness, a smudge of light that swiftly fades. “You,” she says, looking at Dean and nodding, “and you,” she adds, turning to Sam and acknowledging him in the same manner, “are her children.”

“The sons of Mary and John Winchester, yeah,” Dean says. 

“I’m still not sure how this whole angel biology thing works, but if Michael was possessing our dad, that’s almost like having the same parents we had,” Sam says, his tone careful. “That makes us full siblings. Your brothers.”

“My brothers,” their sister says, almost to herself, in a tone of wonderment. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, jumping on the moment to hopefully keep the sword situation under control. “Your brothers, Dean and Sam. And that’d make you our sister. You got a name?”

Their sister shakes her head, her Lady Godiva hair rippling. “No name was given to me.”

“You, uh. You want to pick one?” Dean asks. She looks back at him blankly, her head tilted slightly as her eyelids slowly blink. “You can pick anything you want.”

“How do I know what I want?” she asks. 

“I guess we could make a list or something,” Dean says. “We could use one of those baby names sites.”

“Mary Junior,” Cas blurts out. Dean, Sam, Jack, and the girls—who Dean realizes he’d completely forgotten about, but who are hiding under the stairs—all give Cas their own version of the _what the fuck?_ look.

“Seriously, Cas?” Dean asks. 

“It seems apropos,” Cas says, studiously not looking in Dean’s direction.

“Yes, this is acceptable,” Mary Junior says. 

“Aw, _come on_!” Dean whispers. “Mary-freaking-Junior. Cas, you’re terrible at naming.”

“Mary, uh, Junior, would you like something to wear?” Sam offers. Right, because she’s just wearing hair. Good point there, Sammy.

Mary Junior nods. “Yes. I would like that.”

Maggie and Ophelia must take this as their cue to emerge from hiding, because they sidle up close to Mary Junior—and friggin’ _seriously_ , Cas? Mary Junior?—and start speaking to her in low, soothing voices. Mary Junior’s tightly-held warrior stance uncoils at whatever the girls say, too quietly for Dean to hear. She smiles ever so slightly. It softens her face and strengthens the resemblance to their mom. 

Ophelia smiles brilliantly in response, taking a quick step around Mary Junior towards Sam. “We can help,” she says.

“I think one of the dresses we bought today might fit her,” Maggie adds. “With a sweater, she might be okay until we can take her shopping. Nothing I have really looks like aunt clothes or anything.”

“Aunt clothes. Right,” Dean says to himself. “’Cause Ophelia’s Sam’s kid, and that’s our sister over there, and our sister is Ophelia’s aunt.” He shakes himself back to attention. “Right. Yeah. Thanks, Maggie. You’re being a real champ about all of this.”

Maggie shrugs. “It’s good here. Sometimes it’s kind of weird, but it’s all better than it was back _there_. I’ll take weird if it’s good-weird.” She looks at Ophelia and smiles. “Great-weird.”

“Great. Yeah, that’s good,” Dean says, nodding, because what else is he supposed to do? It’s all definitely weird, and Maggie’s right that a lot of it is good, even great, but Dean hasn’t really had time to process it. From the shell-shocked expression on Sam’s face, neither has he, and even Cas looks more befuddled than usual. Only Jack and Maggie seem to be taking everything in stride, and neither one of them exactly had a typical upbringing. 

Mary Junior—and Jesus Christ, yeah, she oughta be able to pick her own name, but Cas is obviously a shitty namer in any universe—lets herself be taken by the hands, no angel blades in sight, and led from the room in search of clothing. Dean, Sam, Cas, and Jack are left behind to pick themselves up off the floor, out from under furniture, or otherwise right themselves. 

“Jack, kid, I just…” Dean sighs and shakes his head. “This is fucking _weird_ , man. Ophelia and James Junior, that’s one thing, but I thought you were just looking for kids. Mary Junior’s— no, you know what, fuck you, Cas. That name is the worst.”

“Mary Junior likes it,” Cas says.

“Mary Junior threw her sword at us,” Dean says. “ _Twice_!”

“You make an excellent point,” Cas concedes.

“Yeah, so I’m calling her MJ,” Dean says.

“Like in _Spider-Man_!” Jack says, way too excited about all of this. Dean shakes his head again. This is getting way out of hand.

“Sam,” Dean says. Sam doesn’t answer, just keeps on staring off into space like he took a blow to the head. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s face. “Hey! Sammy!” Sam blinks a few times, then turns towards Dean.

“What?” Sam says. Why he sounds annoyed with Dean, when Dean’s the only one who seems to actually be able to handle all the crazy shit that’s happening in this bunker, is anybody’s guess.

“Call Mom,” Dean says. “Tell her, I don’t know. Tell her we’ve got some family shit to discuss, I guess. Maybe don’t mention the kids or MJ.” He sighs. “Especially not MJ.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Boys?” 

During Dean’s forty years of life, he’s been grateful to hear his mother’s voice many, many times: in Heaven, when Amara returned her to life, when they reunited in Apocalypse World. Hearing her calling them from the bottom of the bunker’s entryway staircase after almost forty-eight hours of dealing with newly manifested nephilim outstrips every single one of those moments. 

“Mom?” Dean shouts back from the kitchen. “That you?” It’s her. He just wants to hear her say it. He’s on his fifth cup of coffee. The kids—and MJ—all seemed to have had a great and peaceful night’s sleep. Dean, however, had stared at his ceiling until he finally gave up at five in the morning and went into the kitchen. He hasn’t seen Sam or Cas yet, but from the amount of shuffling around he heard through their doors, they probably didn’t sleep any better than Dean did.

“Dean? Sam? Where is everyone?” Mary says, voice louder as she moves towards the kitchen. Dean manages to get onto his feet before she appears in the doorway, duffel bag thrown over her shoulder and Other Bobby a few steps behind her. 

“Mom,” Dean says. He can feel some of the weight falling from his shoulders as he stands up and hugs her. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I’m glad to see you, too, honey,” Mary says. She pulls back enough to look at his face, her eyes moving back and forth. “What’s wrong?”

“What? No, nothing’s wrong,” Dean says. It’s not _exactly_ a lie.

“Dean, your brother sounded like he was having a panic attack when he called me,” Mary says, dropping her bag and sitting down at the kitchen table. Bobby doesn’t follow her into the kitchen, though nobody remarks on it. 

“It’s nothing bad,” Dean insists. “It’s just kinda weird.”

Mary smiles faintly and tilts her head to the side. “Weird enough to call me back from a hunt?” 

“Well… so, it really isn’t _bad_ , but it is pretty big,” Dean says. 

“Okay,” Mary says, taking a deep breath and resting her hands on the table. “Do you want to tell me now or are we having a family meeting?”

Dean grimaces. “So, uh, yeah. About that.” 

“You’re worrying me,” Mary says. “What’s going on?”

Dean takes a deep breath, tries to start talking, then decides to take a second deep breath. He starts off with, “Mom—” only to be interrupted by the thundering of what sounds like a thousand booted feet coming down the hallway, so instead he just ends up saying, “Son of a bitch.”

Jack appears at the front of the nephilim freefall (plus Maggie, the honorary freefall member) with a big grin on his face. “Mary! You’re home.”

“Jack,” Mary says, standing to pull him in for a hug. The kids—and MJ—crowd into the kitchen, lingering by the door. Mary smiles at them. “Who are your new friends?”

Jack’s grin gets even wider, showing all his teeth. “Oh, these are my—”

“Dean?” Cas calls from the hallway. “Have you seen the—” He stops in the kitchen doorway and peers over the nephilim. “Oh. Nevermind. Here they are. Hello, Mary.”

“Hi, Castiel,” Mary says.

Cas gives Dean a tight smile. “She seems to be taking the news well.”

“What news?” Mary asks. Cas’s face falls and his eyes widen in something Dean thinks had goddamn well _better_ be horror for the briefest second before his expression goes carefully and intentionally blank. 

“Oh,” Cas says.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean says.

“Dean, will you please tell me what’s going on here?” Mary asks. 

Dean takes another deep breath. “Okay. Uh, Mom. So, these are all—”

Sam’s voice comes from the hallway. “Dean? Have you heard from Mom yet?”

Dean says, “Yeah, Sammy. I’ve heard from her,” and lets his head thunk forward onto the table just as Sam elbows his way past the kids and MJ into the kitchen. Dean focuses on his breathing, because he’s pretty sure if he screamed right now, at least two nephilim would take flight, and that wouldn’t exactly defuse the situation. 

“Uh. Hi, Mom,” Sam says. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were back yet.”

“Boys, what on _earth_ is happening?” Mary asks. “Somebody give me a straight answer.”

“Freaking perfect,” Dean mutters to himself, face smushed against the table top. He sighs and sits up again, noting his mother’s confused and, frankly, annoyed expression. “Alright. So, uh. Mom? Meet the grandkids.”

Mary’s eyes narrow in further confusion, then suddenly go wide. She gawks at Dean for a second before turning to stare at the nephilim. Jack gives a little wave, which the other three (and Maggie) immediately copycat. Mary whips her head towards Sam, who shrugs, then to Cas, who doesn’t even have the courtesy to break his put-on blank face with a nice, cozy squint.

“Technically, Mary Junior’s your daughter, not your grandchild,” Jack says. Mary’s face pales, and she drops into the nearest seat. 

“Jack!” Dean says. “How is that helpful?”

“Mary Campbell Winchester!” MJ declares, in what Dean has started mentally referring to as the ‘angel programming voice’. 

“Yes, that’s her,” Jack tells MJ, beaming at her like she’s done something impressive. 

“What is happening?” Mary says. Her eyes wander around the room like she’s not sure where to look. 

“Hello, Grandmother,” Ophelia says. 

“Technically, she’s not _my_ grandmother either,” James Junior says.

“We’ve already talked about this, James Junior,” Jack says. “We’re all family. You’re a Winchester, too, now. She’s everyone’s mother or grandmother.”

“Guys!” Dean shouts. “Can we take this down a notch until I can actually get Mom caught up?”

Mary looks at Dean, still pale. “Dean, will you please explain to me what’s going on? Who are all of these people?”

Dean slides one hand across the table to rest on top of Mary’s. “Okay. So, Jack did kind of a neat trick.” He tries to smile reassuringly at Mary, though her faint smile in response says he might not have hit the mark. “He did a little multiverse searching, looking for other kids like him.”

“Nephilim?” Mary asks.

“Yeah, but a little more specific than that,” Dean says. “He went looking for all the might-have-been nephilim that would, uh. Well, that would be related to _us_.”

“To us?” Mary echoes. “I don’t understand.”

Dean glances over at Jack, whose smile hasn’t faded. He looks like he’s about to come out of his skin, he’s so excited to introduce his new family members to Mary. Dean scrubs a hand through his own hair and then down his face, exhales in a puff. 

“So, infinite universes, right?” Dean says, and Jack nods. “In some of those, I guess sometimes we got with angels.”

“Got with them?” Mary asks.

“Like, _got_ with them,” Dean says. Mary’s cheeks turn red. “Yeah, Mom. Like that.”

“So these people…” Mary gestures at Ophelia, James Junior, and MJ. “They’re all nephilim from other universes, and they’re all… related to us?”

“Yup,” Dean says.

“How did they get here?” Mary asks.

“Jack,” Dean says. Mary looks questioningly at Jack, but he shrugs, like maybe he doesn’t quite understand the mechanics either.

“I just called for them,” Jack explains. “I wasn’t sure who would come. There might be more of them.”

Mary puts her hand over her mouth. “More?” she whispers through her fingers.

“I’m really not certain,” Jack says. Sam puts his hand on Jack’s arm to silence him. 

“Whose are they?” Mary asks Dean. “Introduce me.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “We’ll go one at a time, I guess. So this,” he says, beckoning for Ophelia. She steps forward. “This is Ophelia. She’s Sam’s daughter.”

“Oh. Oh my god,” Mary says. She puts her other hand over her mouth and tears spring to her eyes. 

“Hello,” Ophelia says, blushing slightly and clinging to Maggie’s arm. 

“And this guy here, that’s James Junior,” Dean says. James Junior steps forward and offers Mary his hand. She uncovers her mouth, stands, and takes his hand, shaking it. “He’s—”

“Castiel’s,” Mary says. James Junior nods. “You look like your sister.”

“Thank you,” James Junior says.

“And, uh.” Dean looks at MJ, with her long hair cascading over her shoulders and mostly obscuring the sweater and dress Maggie and Ophelia found for her. 

“Greetings, Mary Campbell Winchester,” MJ says. She doesn’t shake hands, just inclines her head in Mary’s direction.

“Yeah, so that’s MJ,” Dean says.

“It’s short for Mary Junior,” Cas says.

“That’s not helpful, dude,” Dean says. “Just stop with the ‘Juniors’, will you?”

“It’s a perfectly valid human naming convention,” Cas grumbles to himself.

“Mary Junior?” Mary asks. 

Sam, thank God, steps forward to field this one. “In MJ’s universe, Michael possessed Dad, I guess, and instead of Dean, you got pregnant with her.”

“Oh,” Mary says in a soft voice.

“She’s kind of the girl version of Dean,” Sam adds.

“She is _not_ ,” Dean says.

“She _so_ is,” Sam says.

“You’re my daughter?” Mary asks MJ, ignoring Dean and Sam’s exchange completely. MJ straightens herself even more, not that she was exactly slouching, and nods. “Oh. Oh my. It’s nice to meet you. You look a lot like Dean.”

“Not that much like me!” Dean says. Sam shoots his patented pissy, prissy look at him. 

“Mary Junior can manifest angel blades,” Jack says, excited to brag on one of his new siblings. “James Junior can make people be quiet.”

“Why… why are they both named Junior?” Mary asks Dean quietly.

“Cas. That’s one-hundred-percent Cas right there,” Dean says.

“And Ophelia can translocate people,” Jack says, then adds, “She hasn’t refined it yet, but I’m sure she’ll get there.”

“What?” Mary says.

“She kissed Maggie’s face and got spooked, and she sorta zapped Maggie outside the bunker,” Dean says. “Maggie’s fine. Ophelia’s gay. Everybody’s cool. It’s really not a big deal, all things considered.”

“Mom? You okay?” Sam asks. Dean looks at Mary, who, sure enough, is swaying in place slightly, her face paper-white.

“Mom!” Dean says, reaching for her arm to steady her.

“I think I need to sit down again,” Mary says. “I feel a little lightheaded.”

Sam immediately pulls out a chair and positions it behind her. “Here.” 

Mary smiles at him, thin-lipped and tight, as she lowers herself into the chair. The pressing chatter of the nephilim (and Maggie) fades to nothing as they all stare at Mary with varying degrees of worry: Ophelia is teary-eyed and clinging to Maggie, James Junior shuffles closer to Cas like an anxious puppy, MJ looks how concern might look if it were carved into a marble statue, while Jack mostly looks a little guilty. He pours Mary a glass of water and hands it to her.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says. 

“What for, sweetheart?” Mary asks. She takes the water and holds the glass with both hands, but doesn’t drink.

“I should have asked before I started looking for my siblings,” Jack says. “We didn’t have anything ready for them, and now everyone is kind of stressed out.”

“That’s an understatement,” Dean says, just loud enough for Sam to hear him. Sam smacks him on the arm. “Hey!”

“Behave,” Sam orders.

“You behave!” Dean says. 

“It was thoughtless of me,” Jack continues, unconcerned by Winchesterly brother-smacking. 

Mary smiles the same thin smile again and takes a sip of her water. “It’s certainly a bit of a surprise,” she says, nodding at the nephilim in general, but probably MJ in particular. 

“Maybe we should do this in shifts,” Sam suggests. “Take it one new Winchester at a time?” He looks at Cas and raises his eyebrows. Cas squints back in response, looking more puzzled than usual. Sam gives Cas a few seconds to catch on, but when it’s obvious he isn’t gonna, Sam sighs. “Take them to another room, Cas?”

“Ah,” Cas says, nodding slowly. “I thought that look might mean something like that.”

“So maybe do that?” Sam says.

“Yes, of course,” Cas says, shooing the children and MJ towards the door.

“James Junior should stay,” Dean says. “We’ll go youngest to oldest.”

“Mary Junior arrived most recently, so she’s the youngest,” Jack says.

“Yeah, but James Junior’s small and cute and MJ’s like forty,” Dean says. “Read the room, kid.”

Jack shrugs, all _yeah, can’t argue with that logic_. Mary smiles more genuinely as the room empties, only Dean, Sam, and James Junior left behind. Without Jack or Cas there, James Junior looks a little adrift. Dean realizes how many of James Junior’s cues are still coming directly from Cas, everything from posture to facial expressions. Without either of his mentors, James Junior looks kind of like a toy with the batteries removed, stuck in the last position he was in. Everything about this situation is weird and complicated, but Dean has a quick fix for a confused kid, at least. 

“Hey, James Junior?” Dean says. “You want some cake?” 

James Junior suddenly reanimates, a bright smile on his face. “Yes, I would like some cake, please.”

“Figured,” Dean says. He moves a few disposable tupperware containers around on the counter—the nephilim have left a lot of half-finished food lying around the last two days—until he finds the one he’s pretty sure has cake left in it. Sure enough, Dean sees about two slices’ worth in the container, but instead of slicing it, he hands the whole tupperware to James Junior with a fork. 

James Junior settles himself into a seat at the kitchen table across from Mary and digs into the cake. Dean lets him get a few bites in before sitting down next to him, across from Sam. Mary watches James eating with the kind of fond expression that’s probably exclusive to moms, because it’s definitely not a look Dean has ever seen on Cas or Sam’s faces, even when they’re looking at the kids that kinda-sorta belong to them. 

“So, James Junior,” Mary begins, her voice pitched low and soft, like she’s afraid to startle the kid. She clearly doesn’t know how much James Junior likes cake. “How are you liking it here so far?”

James Junior thinks it over, squinting a little. Mary presses her lips together in a way Dean recognizes as her trying-not-to-laugh face. He raises his eyebrows at her, which only makes her have to work harder to suppress the giggles. When Dean looks at Sam, he’s fighting a laugh, too. 

“I like it here,” James Junior finally declares. “Everyone is nice, and I like my room. I’m sharing with Jack. He has lots of pictures of everyone up on the walls.”

“Some of the kids are doubling up so nobody’s alone,” Sam explains, not even a hint of laughter in his voice, which seems unfair, since Dean and Mary are obviously both struggling to stay straight-faced. 

“Mary Junior doesn’t have to share with anyone, though,” James Junior says. 

Dean clears his throat and finally gets a handle on the laughter. “Yeah, we gave MJ her own room. Figured she’d appreciate the privacy.” 

“She was supposed to be a warrior. She throws a sword,” James Junior explains. 

“Oh.” Mary’s eyebrows rise up towards her hairline, wrinkling her forehead. Dean chuckles to himself, because she’s definitely where Sam got that particular trait. “A sword. That’s… wow.”

“Apparently, nephilim don’t have a standard set of abilities or anything,” Sam says.

“And MJ pulls swords out of thin air, so,” Dean says, shrugging. 

“It’s the same sword,” James Junior says.

“What? Nah, I don’t think so,” Dean says.

“It is,” James Junior insists. “It’s just the one. And she doesn’t pull it out of thin air.”

“Where’s she getting it, then?” Dean asks.

“It’s under her wings,” James Junior says, matter-of-factly, like keeping swords under your _wings_ is a perfectly normal thing to do. “It’s where she puts it when she isn’t using it.”

“How do you know that, sweetheart?” Mary asks James Junior, in the same low, careful voice. 

“I can see them,” James Junior says.

“Her wings?” Sam asks. James Junior nods. 

“Huh,” Dean says. “Just hers?” James Junior shakes his head. “Everybody’s? Who has wings, I mean?”

James Junior nods again. “Yes. Mary Junior, Jack, Ophelia, and Castiel.” He frowns down at his cake, gnawing on his lower lip. “Castiel’s wings are all burned up.”

Dean winces at the thought of how Cas’s wings must look. “Yeah, that was— a really bad guy did that to him.”

“It must have hurt a lot. I feel really sad when I look at them,” James Junior says. “I hope you stopped the bad guy who did it.”

“Oh yeah, we stopped him good,” Dean says. 

Sam snorts. “Yeah, you could put it that way.”

“Can the other nephilim see the wings, too?” Mary asks. 

James Junior shrugs. “I don’t know. Nobody else seemed to notice where Mary Junior put her sword. I can ask them when we’re done, if you want.”

Dean and Mary exchange a glance that communicates a wide array of feelings, starting with _oh shit_ and ending somewhere around _what the actual fuck?_

“Nah, that’s okay,” Dean says. “We’ll ask them ourselves. So, Mom, was there anything you wanted to know about James Junior?”

Mary smiles at James Junior. “I see you like cake. Are there any other foods you like or don’t like?”

“I don’t like how peanut butter makes my mouth feel. I like soft pretzels and nacho cheese sauce,” James Junior says. “I also like neckties.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “That’s not a food, though.”

“No, it’s not,” Mary says with a small laugh. “Did they get you a tie?”

James Junior nods. “It’s plaid. Dean says it’s very Winchester.”

“It’s the Winchester-est,” Dean agrees. 

“I don’t think that’s a real word,” James Junior says.

“Yeah, well, it’s a real word now,” Dean says. 

James Junior shrugs. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I like him,” Mary stage-whispers to Sam, giving James Junior a big grin. 

“Thank you,” James Junior says. “Should I call you Mary or something else?”

“Oh,” Mary says, her eyes widening. “I guess I didn’t ever stop to think about what I’d want my grandchildren to call me.”

James Junior begins to say “I’m not re—” only to be cut off by Dean’s hand on his shoulder and a firm shake of the head. 

“James Junior _Winchester_ ,” Dean reminds him. The kid nods. “Good.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t worry about what to call you until you’ve had a chance to meet everyone,” Sam suggests. “It’ll take the pressure off a little.”

Mary looks grateful, and soon she’s listening to the story of James Junior’s brief life in the other universe. Dean scoots down a little so he can lean across the table to talk to Sam quietly.

“I think this is going pretty good so far,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, frowning slightly, with his shoulders hunched forward in that way of his, trying to make himself smaller and less noticeable. A smaller target.

“Hey, she’s gonna love Ophelia,” Dean reassures him. “Who wouldn’t? She’s smart, sweet, looks just like you, _clearly_ has better taste in women than you and me ever did, ’cause Maggie’s the best.”

Sam chuckles, straightening up. “Yeah, I guess there’s that.”

“I think I’m ready to meet the next one now,” Mary says. She and James Junior both stand. He holds out his hand for a shake, but Mary just wraps her arms around him in a quick hug. Once she releases him, James Junior takes his empty cake container and fork over to the sink. 

“He’s better at putting his dishes in the sink than you are,” Sam says.

“Hey, I do most of the cooking,” Dean says. “That means dishes are on you.”

“I can only wash the dishes I can find, man,” Sam says.

“Boys!” Mary says. “Not you, sweetie,” she adds to James Junior, who looks mildly alarmed. “Can you find Jack and Castiel and ask them to send in Ophelia?”

“Yes, I can do that,” James Junior says, with a funny little nod, like he’s pleased to be given a task. Maybe James Junior could be put on dish location and retrieval duty if he enjoys tasks, Dean muses. 

A few minutes later, everyone seated at the table again, Ophelia enters. Maggie waves from the doorway before ducking out of sight again. When Ophelia just stands there looking befuddled, Sam stands and directs her to the seat James Junior recently vacated. 

“Do you want anything? A Coke? Some water?” Sam asks. 

“No,” Ophelia says, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary, but thank you, Father.”

Mary goes pale at that, resting her hands on the tabletop, fingers spread out for stability. Dean pats one hand, Sam gets the other. She gives them a weak smile before focusing her attention on Ophelia, whom she gives a true, warm smile. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mary says to her. “You’re so beautiful. You look so much like Sam.”

Ophelia’s face dimples as she shyly tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “Thank you.”

“So I hear that you and Maggie are…” Mary looks at Dean, the _help me_ clear. 

“Uh. Dating?” Dean suggests.

“I’m not familiar with that term,” Ophelia says. 

“It means you, uh.” Now Dean is the one looking for help, this time from Sam. 

Sam grimaces, but manages to say, “You like to spend time with her in a romantic way.”

“Oh yes,” Ophelia says. “I do like that. Her face is more beautiful than all of the sweaters in Walmart, and she’s the kindest and best person I’ve ever met.”

“In her whole two-and-a-half days of life,” Dean says under his breath. Sam kicks him in the shin. 

“Maggie’s a wonderful young woman,” Mary agrees. “She’s very brave, too.”

Ophelia beams at Mary. “Yes. She wasn’t even afraid when I accidentally disappeared her to outside the bunker.”

Mary’s smile becomes a little strained. “I heard about that, that you, um. You disappeared her.”

“Accidentally,” Ophelia adds.

“Yes, of course,” Mary agrees. “But she was fine. No injury?”

“Couple of leaves in her hair and a lot confused, but none the worse for wear,” Dean says. 

“I’m sure I will get better at it,” Ophelia says. “Then I’ll only send someone away when I want to.”

“Yeah, we should probably figure out how to practice that or something,” Dean says.

“Ophelia, did you have any questions for Mo— Mary?” Sam asks. “Things you want to know about her or the family?”

“Oh yes,” Ophelia says. She leans in a little towards Mary. “My grandfather is in Heaven, correct?” Mary gasps softly; Dean can see how the question hurts. Still, Mary manages to give Ophelia a slight nod. “Do you get to visit him?” Ophelia continues. 

“Heaven doesn’t really work like that,” Sam says. 

“Why not?”

“Humans can’t just go back and forth,” Dean says. “They don’t let us up there.”

“But Castiel or Jack could take you,” Ophelia says.

Mary shakes her head and slides her hand across the table to rest on top of Ophelia’s. “No, sweetheart. They can’t. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I don’t understand,” Ophelia says. “Wouldn’t it make you happy? And my grandfather as well?”

Mary sets her jaw, the little jump of the muscle the only sign that she’s holding back tears, and Dean is probably the only one who notices it. She takes a deep breath before answering Ophelia. 

“John would be confused,” Mary says. “Right now, he’s living in his memories. He wouldn’t know me as I am now. He wouldn’t recognize me as his Mary.” She shakes her head slightly as her eyes start to well up. “Sometimes I barely recognize myself. It would be unkind to John.”

Ophelia’s forehead furrows. “And it would be unkind to you as well. I can see that now,” she says. “I apologize, Grandmother. I did not mean to offend or cause you harm!” Tears spring to her eyes.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Mary says, taking Ophelia’s hand in hers and squeezing it. A tear slowly rolls down Mary’s cheek. She doesn’t try to wipe it away, instead focusing on Ophelia alone. “I’m fine. It’s sad, of course it’s sad, but I know he’s there, and he’s safe, and that’s what’s important.”

“No, I was cruel, and that’s important,” Ophelia says. She’s actively crying now, not just teary-eyed. “I’m sorry, Grandmother.” She squeezes her eyes closed and with a loud rustle of wings, she disappears. Both Mary and Sam look around the room frantically for any sign of her, but she’s gone.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” Dean says, with a sigh.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean finds himself running through the halls of the bunker with Sam and Mary, calling for Ophelia. They look in storerooms, closets, any room they pass, hoping for some sign of her. When they go through the library, Cas and the kids are there, all looking up anxiously.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks.

“Have you seen Ophelia?” Sam asks. He’s pale, his eyes wide and glassy with panic. The kids—and MJ—pick up on it, moving restlessly and look at each other for explanation or comfort. Maggie immediately jumps up and rushes out of the library in the direction of their bedroom, presumably to check there for Ophelia. 

“She hasn’t been back since she went to talk to you,” Jack says. “What happened?”

“She got upset,” Mary says carefully. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But she flew off somewhere, and we don’t know where,” Dean says. 

“If she had a phone, we could track it,” Cas says.

“ _Does_ she have a phone?” Dean asks.

Cas sighs. “No.”

“I swear to god, I’m gonna get these kids microchipped!” Dean says. “That’s the only solution.”

“She sent Maggie just outside the bunker, so I’m going to go topside, see if she’s up there,” Sam says. Dean claps him on the shoulder in solidarity as he passes on his way to the front door. 

“Okay, so we should search the bunker, work front to back” Dean says. As he falls into giving orders mode, he relaxes a little. They have this under control. They’ll locate Ophelia and everything will be fine. “Jack, you head towards the bathrooms. Cas, take the dungeon. Mom and I will work our way towards the garage.”

“And where shall I search?” Mary Junior asks. Dean and Mary exchange an _oh shit_ look, before Dean looks to Cas for the assist.

“It would mean a great deal to me if you would stay here with James Junior,” Cas say to Mary Junior. “If Ophelia returns, she might, ah…” He looks at Dean and tilts his head slightly in questioning. 

“Take James Junior with her if she disappears again,” Dean finishes for Cas. “To keep him safe, you know?”

“Yes, exactly,” Cas says. 

“I will protect James Junior with my life,” Mary Junior says, sounding like she’s swearing some kind of blood oath or something.

“Yeah, let’s not have it come to that, okay?” Dean says. “Just keep him company and yell if you see Ophelia.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” James Junior says. “She just doesn’t know how to feel safe yet.”

Beside Dean, Mary makes the saddest little “aw” sound. Even Dean finds himself clearing his throat in order to regain his composure. With a little nod to Cas and Jack, though, Dean starts towards the garage with Mary, checking the bedrooms on that hallway as they go.

“Has she done this before?” Mary asks, as they clear the fourth bedroom in a row.

“She’s tried it, but I was able to catch her before she took off,” Dean says. “Not a trick I’d like try again, if I can help it.”

“I can imagine,” Mary says.

Dean checks the next room down, one of the ones that’s still empty save for the original furniture, all with a faint layer of dust on it. He sighs in frustration.

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. “What she said about Dad.”

“I know,” Mary says.

“She’s a really good kid. She’s just sorta, you know. Sorta tentative about the whole thing.” 

Mary nods. “She didn’t know any better.”

“Still, I know it sucked,” Dean says.

Mary sniffs quietly, and Dean realizes she’s crying again, her eyes slightly damp. She rubs them with the back of one hand. “It does suck,” she agrees through a laugh. “It really sucks. I know I should be used to it by now, but…”

“Hey, no,” Dean says. He takes Mary gently by the shoulders. “You don’t get used to that. You think Dad and me ever got used to you being dead? It got a little easier, but we never _got used to it_ , Mom. And it’s not like me and Sammy have ever exactly gotten used to each other dying.”

Mary exhales loudly, slumping her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to chase her off.”

“You didn’t. She’s just a little bit jumpy,” Dean says. “She’s still new at person-ing. Which, _that’s_ a thing somebody can get used to.”

“Really?” Mary asks wryly. “I have met Castiel, you know. He’s still working on his person-ing.”

“Hey! Give Cas a break!” Dean says. “He tries, okay?”

Mary smiles in amusement. “You get protective of him sometimes.”

Dean feels the tips of his ears burning, and all he can really say in response is a mumbled, “He’s doing the best he can.”

“Well, I think it’s nice how loyal you all are to each other,” Mary says. “Makes me feel safer when I hunt, knowing the three of you—and Jack—have each other’s backs.”

“Cas is good people. Weird people, sure, but good,” Dean says. “All those friggin’ Juniors, though, Mom. What’s that about?”

“But he _tries_ ,” Mary teases.

“Ah, shaddup,” Dean says, as Mary elbows him in the side, cracking up at him.

They check the last few rooms, then head down the stairs into the garage. At first, it looks empty, just the cars and motorcycles each in their own designated spot, but then Dean spots movement coming from the Impala’s back seat. 

“Found her,” Dean says in a low voice. He slowly approaches the Impala. Ophelia is curled up in a ball in the back seat, her knees up to her face and her arms wrapped around them, and she’s crying. She looks miserable.

Dean taps lightly on the glass of the passenger window, startling her. She lifts her head and looks at him, wide-eyed. He opens the rear driver’s side door and slides onto the bench seat next to Ophelia, while Mary waits outside the car. 

“Hey, kid,” Dean says. “You doing okay?”

“I upset my grandmother and now she will never like me,” Ophelia says, burying her face against her knees again with a squeaky little sob. Dean starts to reach for her for a one-armed hug, then loses confidence and freezes, hand hovering in the air near her shoulder. He settles on patting her back and making a slow circle with his palm. 

“She’s not upset with you,” Dean says. “Look at her.” He points at Mary, who smiles at them in response. “See? She came with me to find you.”

“I just don’t understand how all this works. The rules are too hard,” Ophelia says, sounding angry, though whether that’s at Dean or at herself, Dean can’t tell. 

“Yeah, none of this really makes any sense, and I’ve been living in it for like forty years,” Dean says. “I still screw up all the time. You’re brand new at the whole life thing. We’re all gonna cut each other some slack right now, alright?”

“But how do I know what I’m supposed to ask or not ask?” Ophelia says. 

Dean shrugs. “You figure that out, you let me know.”

“Jack shouldn’t have called me here, I fear,” Ophelia says.

“Hey,” Dean says, rubbing her back a little more firmly. “Yes, he should’ve. We want you here. Sam wants you here. Mom wants you here. Jack’s completely thrilled you’re here, and Maggie’s like head over heels for you, kiddo. We’re glad he called you. It’s just weird for all of us, you included, but we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

Ophelia nods, sniffling. “Okay.”

“You want to come back and talk to your grandma a little bit more?” Dean asks. 

“Yes, I would like that.”

“And hey, if you don’t know stuff works, you can still ask. Somebody might get a little upset, but they’ll get over it,” Dean says. “We’re family. That’s pretty much how it works.”

Ophelia smiles at him, still a little watery-eyed, and uncurls herself. She had managed a pretty tight ball for someone her height, but now that she’s stretching out again, Dean remembers she’s the teenage girl version of Sam-sized. 

“It’s kinda cramped in here. Let’s go let everybody know we found you,” Dean says. He slides out the door and offers Ophelia a hand, helping her stand from the back seat. He shuts the door behind them. 

Ophelia takes one look at Mary and bursts into tears again. “I’m so sorry!” she says.

“Oh, no, don’t be,” Mary says, stepping in to wrap her arms around Ophelia. “Just because a conversation is hard, doesn’t mean it’s bad or wrong. I’m okay.”

“You don’t hate me?” Ophelia asks.

“Of course not! You’re Sam’s daughter, my granddaughter,” Mary says. “I could never hate you.”

Ophelia hugs Mary back. The hugging goes on for a while, long enough that Dean has to clear his throat to get everybody to focus again, because they still need to let Sam know they found his kid before he has a heart attack. 

“Maggie’s probably getting worried about you,” Dean says, because while he’d usually totally rat out Sam and his girly feelings under most circumstances, he wouldn’t do it in front of Sam’s kid.

“Oh! I should go tell her I am safe,” Ophelia says. 

“Yeah, let’s head back up there,” Dean says, and together, the three of them head back into the bunker and towards the library, where they reconvene with all the nephilim, Cas, a relieved Sam, and a grateful Maggie, who rushes to Ophelia and allows herself to be peppered with chaste little kisses all over her face. Sam, Dean, and Cas all pretend not to notice, though Jack and the other nephilim all watch the display of affection, Jack grinning like crazy, and MJ and James Junior mostly looking curious. 

“I believe,” Cas say to Sam and Dean in an undertone, “the appropriate response to this is _yikes_.”

“You said it, man,” Dean says, grinning. He drapes one arm across Cas’s shoulders, and makes a half-assed attempt to the same to Sam, who instead of hunching so Dean can reach him just snorts and rests his elbow on Dean’s shoulder instead. 

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Sam asks. 

“I’m a freaking great uncle, is what,” Dean says. “We’ve totally _got_ this kid thing, you guys.” 

Sam huffs a laugh at him. “If you say so.”

“Hey, I’m not kidding! I just talked down a teenage girl – a teenage girl with _zapping powers_ , by the way. I’m like the teenage girl whisperer,” Dean says. “I’m their _Yoda_.”

“The teenage girl Yoda?” Sam asks, sounding dubious.

“I’m wise, Sammy. It’s just in my nature.”

“Okay, wise guy,” Sam says. “Are we trying again with Ophelia and Mom?”

Dean considers it for a beat before saying, “Nah. They’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other. Better to not force it.”

“Yeah, that was my thought, too,” Sam says.

“You learned from watching the best,” Dean says. He might still be a little bit riding the high of his first real uncle-related win, because that earns him an exaggerated eye roll from Sam.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Sam says, with a laugh.

Cas clears his throat. “Ophelia seems to be… finished with Maggie.”

“Great!” Dean says. “Let’s move on to door number three.”

“Mom and Mary Junior,” Sam says, wincing. Mary and MJ actually already seem to be engaged in a conversation on the other side of the room. They can’t see Mary’s face from where they’re standing, just MJ’s, and MJ’s face is angelically unreadable, apart from the perpetual faint look of righteous fury.

Dean grimaces. “This is gonna be—”

“Interesting,” Sam says, as Cas says, “Exciting,” and Dean finishes, “Really freaking weird.”

They all laugh, and Sam says, “Yeah, probably all three of those.”

“As long as it’s not stabby,” Dean says. 

They walk towards the two women, catching the tail end of whatever Mary is saying, which is just, “Until he was three!” 

MJ laughs, which is kind of disturbing, and which Dean immediately decides means the ‘he’ in question is _him_ and that he doesn’t want to know anything else about the conversation. Sam’s smirk suggests he also thinks Mary and MJ were discussing Dean.

“Mom, did you want to move your conversation with Mary Junior into the kitchen?” Sam asks.

Mary looks at MJ, who nods once. “That’s a good idea.”

Sam smiles. “Okay. I’ll just let Ophelia know we—”

“Oh,” Mary says. “You and Dean aren’t invited.”

“What?” Dean says, because while he doesn’t want to hear them maybe discussing his shenanigans as a kid, but he still wants to _supervise_! 

“We’re going to have a conversation that doesn’t include you boys,” Mary says. She smiles pleasantly enough, but Dean knows that smile really means _don’t even think about arguing_. Dean had once thought that was one of his father’s signature facial expressions; meeting his mother again in adulthood made it clear John learned that particular look from his wife.

“I guess we’ll just wait here,” Sam says. Mary keeps the same smile plastered on her face as she steers MJ out of the room and towards the kitchen.

“What just happened?” Dean asks Sam and Cas.

“I think Mary didn’t require as much hand-holding as the two of you thought,” Cas says, with his own amused smile.

“MJ had better keep that sword up there under her wings!” Dean says, gesturing emphatically in the direction Mary and MJ disappeared.

“Under her wings?” Cas asks.

“Okay, so you need to have a conversation with James Junior,” Sam says. He directs Cas to James Junior, then turns his attention to Ophelia and Maggie (who are thankfully no longer face-kissing). Dean decides to use this brief moment of relative respite to go take a shower, because wrangling errant nephilim is stressful work, and Dean is a stress sweater. 

By the time he finishes showering and gets dressed, the freefall has mostly disbanded, everyone to separate parts of the bunker. He hears the television going in one room, the sound of the old phonograph playing in the reading nook, and smatters of animated conversation sprinkled with laughter as he walks the bunker’s halls.

Finally, Dean finds himself alone in the kitchen, a pleasant surprise after the chaos of the day. He snags a beer from the fridge and sits down with it, popping the top and taking a swig from the cold bottle. He rolls his head to one side, then the other to crack his stiff neck, immediately feeling the tension falling from his shoulders. He sits in the quiet room, slowly drinking his beer, for a good five minutes before Cas shuffles into the open doorway, looking somewhat abashed at intruding on Dean’s alone time. 

“Dean, do you have a moment?” Cas asks. He seems to be studiously avoiding eye contact, instead staring at about the second button down on Dean’s shirt, like it holds the answers to the multiverse – which, fair enough, weirder shit has happened than life’s mysteries being hidden in Dean’s third favorite flannel. 

“Is this a beer talk or a whiskey talk?” Dean asks, tipping his bottle in Cas’s direction. Cas mulls it over a little too long for the answer to be ‘beer talk’, so before Cas can say anything, Dean gets up and pours both of them whiskey talk–worthy glasses of the first bottle he grabs. It looks like some of the bottom shelf rotgut that Bobby, both original and Other, favored. Favor. Multiverses make even simple thoughts complicated like that. 

“I felt we should come back to our conversation at the Walmart,” Cas says, taking the glass Dean offers him. He holds it like a prop, not sitting until Dean sits. 

“What, about nacho cheese? Because, dude, we don’t need to talk about nacho cheese ever again.”

Cas frowns and squints, his tone disappointed. “Dean. I think we both know that you know that’s not that I mean.”

“Do I, though?” Dean asks, drinking his whiskey. It’s serious swill, and he regrets not taking the time to go out into the library for the good stuff. 

“Yes, you do,” Cas says. “We should discuss what happened when I suggested the children might be involved in hunting.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” Dean says. 

“You said we should discuss it in the bunker, and we’re in the bunker.”

“Thought it was gonna be more of a family discussion, is all,” Dean says.

“And it will be,” Cas says, “but first it needs to be a discussion between the two of us.”

“I don’t exactly have final say over what anybody else’s kids do.”

Cas sighs, swirling the whiskey around in his glass and staring down into it. “That’s exactly what we need to discuss. You seem to feel you have fewer… I hesitate to say ‘obligations’, because that suggests you don’t wish to be responsible for their well-being, which we both know is untrue. Rights, perhaps. That you have fewer rights regarding the children.”

“Don’t I?” Dean asks. “They’re not my kids. They’re not even alternative-mine.”

“Neither is Jack, but we’ve all taken an equitable approach to parenting him,” Cas says.

“That’s different,” Dean says. 

“How so?”

“Because Jack’s the same amount of related to all of us, ’cause he’s _not_ related by blood. These kids are yours and Sam’s and Mom’s by blood, and yeah, family’s more than just blood, but…” Dean sighs and tosses back his whiskey. 

“It gives us dibs?” Cas asks.

“What?” 

“You think our multiversal parentage gives us dibs on the children,” Cas says. “Like Sam, your mother, and I have called ‘shotgun’ on them.”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, since you put it that way… yeah, kinda.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Cas says.

“Hey, don’t pull any punches, man,” Dean says, pouring himself another drink of the shitty whiskey. 

“Why should I pull punches if you’re so dead set on being a moron?” Cas asks.

Dean drinks his whiskey in two swallows. “Yeah. Great talk.” He stands.

“Sit down!” Cas snaps, and without consciously deciding to, Dean sits. Cas glares at him, leaning forward on the table. It’s kind of hot. “Dean, you have as much right to these children as any of us do. You’re the one with the most parenting experience. You’re the one who thought to take them clothing shopping, and who knew Ophelia needed a different shampoo. You’re the one constantly concerned for their well-being, while I thoughtlessly assumed they would immediately be brought into hunting.”

“You guys would have come up with all of that stuff eventually,” Dean says.

“But we didn’t,” Cas says. “Not Sam, who, happy though he may be, is clearly overwhelmed. Not Jack, who didn’t think about the ramifications of his actions. Not me, who gave no consideration to your feelings about raising children in this lifestyle, despite knowing your history.”

“My point is that you’ll figure it out,” Dean says. “I don’t expect you to let me make decisions for the kids, just ’cause I thought about them needing toothbrushes and tighty whities.” 

“As usual, you do yourself a disservice,” Cas says. 

“Saves everybody else the trouble,” Dean says.

“Dean,” Cas says with a sigh. 

“Just leave it, man, okay?” Dean pleads. “We can pick at that scab tomorrow, but today I’m tired, and I just want to get a little drunk and maybe wash my car.”

“That sounds like an interesting plan,” Cas says.

“You wanna drunk-wash my car with me?” Dean asks, pointing at the whiskey bottle. “You drink this fast enough, you might get a buzz, at least.”

Cas looks uncomfortable, or maybe just torn, because he says, “I worry about the example that might set for James Junior.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with two dudes drinking a bottle of crap-ass whiskey and washing one of those dude’s awesome-ass Impala.”

Cas’s mouth twists into a small smile. “Alright. Car maintenance is important to model.”

“Damn right it is!” Dean says. He grabs the whiskey bottle, and together, they head towards the garage.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean loves routine. He thrives on it. Washing Baby is one of those routines that immediately settles him and calms his mind. He goes through the same steps every time, and he gets the same results, which are always equally satisfying. He can exert some control over at least one thing in his life, take it from mess to pristine through a small investment of time and effort, and that’s not something Dean takes for granted. 

By the time Dean and Cas are rubbing Baby down with chamois cloths, Dean feels settled. The craziness of the last few days feels manageable. Sure, his clothes are soaked through, and his fingers have pruned, and Cas isn’t looking that much better for wear, but the Impala is clean. They did that together.

“Thanks for this,” Dean tells Cas, as they carry the buckets of dirty, soapy water to the floor drain to dump.

“I don’t mind manual labor,” Cas says.

“It’s more than that,” Dean says. “It got me out of my head, and it’s kind of a mess up there right now.”

“Understandable,” Cas says. “My mind is also something of a mess. I’m glad I could help.”

They rinse out the sponges and chamois in the shop sink in the far corner of the garage, holding them under the faucet until the water runs clear. Even the clean-up part of the job is good, because it’s about getting everything back into order to make it easier to find and use next time. They do this without talking, and the silence feels amicable. 

Afterwards, they linger in the garage, admiring a job well done. The Impala glistens under the garage lights, chrome shiny enough for them to see their reflections in it. Dean throws an arm—damp as the rest of him—across Cas’s shoulders. Cas shifts to accommodate him, moving a little closer. Everything feels good and right.

They hear the frantic beating of wings. 

Dean jerks his arm away from Cas and immediately begins scanning the room, finding it empty. They rush up the garage stairs into the bunker, quickly locating Jack first, then Ophelia, James Junior, and MJ to confirm that they aren’t the ones taking flight. Then they race through the hallways, looking for the telltale burst of white light, listening for the ear-piercing noise. The beating of wings gets louder as they enter the library, but while they can feel a rush of wind on the faces for a moment, no light or other sound follows, and the beating tapers off to a flutter before disappearing entirely.

“What just happened?” Dean asks Cas. 

“I’m not sure,” Cas says. 

Sam runs into the library, wild-eyed. “Where are they?”

“Nobody’s here,” Dean says. “It’s like they started to land, but changed their minds.”

“What does that even mean?” Sam asks. “Did they go back to their home universe? Did they go somewhere else? Are they out there in the world alone?” He looks frantic, with eyes skittering back and forth between Dean and Cas, and Dean can only think that Sam is imagining Ophelia landing somewhere random in the universe, naked and alone in a strange new world.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, shaking his head. He doesn’t exactly find the thought comforting, either: some nephilim kid, a kid of _theirs_ , adrift in their world with no guidance or protection. 

“Maybe they’ll come back,” Cas offers. He sounds like he’s trying to be reassuring, though that’s undercut somewhat by the fact his clothes are soaking wet and he smells like a cheap distillery, not that Dean’s any better on that end.

“Why wouldn’t they stay?” Sam asks. “How is out there better than in here? The others all came here looking for Jack. Jack’s here.”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean says. “Maybe they couldn’t make it all the way through the barrier or whatever it is between their world and ours.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, sounding unconvinced.

“Sam, I’m sure that any child who saw our home would wish to stay here where they would be loved and cared for, given the choice,” Cas says. 

Sam’s shoulders slump. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course we’re right,” Dean says. “Look, I’m gonna go clean up, then we should throw together a late dinner for everybody. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Sam say. He gives Dean a slightly-forced smile. 

“You go talk to the kids and find out if any of them have a strong opinion about hot dogs,” Dean says. 

Sam laughs at that. “Okay.”

“Tell ’em we don’t have nacho cheese sauce, but if they promise to behave, I might be able to scrounge up some canned chili,” Dean adds. 

“That’ll be pleasant, if they take after you,” Sam says.

“After _me_?” Dean says, putting on a look of shock. “Sam, have you ever ridden in the car with you after a chili dog? Because I’ve ridden in the car with you, and let me tell you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam scoffs. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.” He looks less worried, at least, as he heads off to round up the nephilim currently dispersed throughout the bunker. 

Dean breaths out with an audible “Oof,” running a hand down his face. “I don’t know how much of this we can take,” he tells Cas. “If we had some kind of idea of how many kids to expect, maybe, but I’m starting to feel like those families that don’t use birth control because it’s ‘God’s will’ how many kids they have.” He shakes his head. “Like Chuck gives a shit if they use a condom or not.”

Cas nods, eyes narrowed in thought. “I believe most of the Biblical statements on the subject are third or fourth hand, at best. Certainly questionable, given our knowledge of Chuck.”

“Exactly!” Dean says. “C’mon, let’s get out of this wet stuff. You smell like a drunk passed out in a carwash.”

“I’m not a drunk,” Cas grumbles. 

“That’s not what my nose is telling me,” Dean says, as they start walking towards their rooms.

“Tell your nose to mind its own business.”

“Ouch, you’re touchy,” Dean says. “Are you hungover? You need some Tylenol?”

Cas squint-glares at him. “Remember that the intoxicated car-washing was your idea.”

“And it was a great one,” Dean says.

“It was strangely relaxing,” Cas concedes. 

“That’s ’cause when you give you whole attention to something, it turns the rest of your brain off,” Dean says.

“I don’t believe that’s how brains work, Dean,” Cas says, as they stop at Dean’s door. 

“It’s a figure of speech, man, come on!” Dean says.

“Well, thank you for the distraction,” Cas says.

Dean grins at him. “Anytime.”

Cas’s eyebrows rise, and his face shifts into an expression Dean doesn’t recognize. “Anytime?”

“Yeah. Anytime you need a distraction,” Dean says.

“Anytime at all?”

“Sure. Don’t get weird about it.” 

“I’m not getting weird about it,” Cas says.

Dean snorts. “You totally are.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna change,” Dean says, opening his door. “You should also go change.”

“You once told me never to change,” Cas says, and he’s gotta be making his voice huskier on purpose, because Dean can feel sweat prickling at his hairline. 

“Weird!” Dean practically shouts, and steps into his room, shutting the door behind him. He palms his face and mutters to himself, “Jesus Christ, Winchester, get your shit together.”

Dean takes longer to change than he probably should, but his brain is only moving at half-speed, too hung up on the way he responded to Cas to really care much about changing quickly. He grabs socks from a drawer, not noticing they’re mismatched until he’s pulled them on. Nobody would notice, probably, but if someone _did_ , it would be Cas, and Cas would wonder why Dean put on mismatched socks, and— yeah, he’s way overthinking this.

For no reason in particular (none, none at all), Dean checks out his reflection in the mirror before he leaves his room to head for the kitchen. Sam is already in there, showing Ophelia how to make a salad, apparently.

“You’ve only had her three days!” Dean says. “Don’t ruin her!”

“We can’t keep feeding them PB&J, cake, and soda,” Sam says. 

“Why not? They like it, and it’s not like they have to worry about their blood sugar,” Dean says. “Or, crap, do they? Jack doesn’t, I don’t think, but I don’t know about the rest of them.”

“Hello, Dean,” Ophelia says. She’s chopping up a carrot with impressive speed, considering she’s only had actual hands for about 72 hours, give or take. 

“Hey, kid,” Dean says. “Don’t let your dad force you into living off rabbit food. I don’t eat salad, and look at me!” He pats his stomach to indicate his perfectly adequate level of fitness. Ophelia looks dubious.

“I like the small tomatoes,” she says. 

“Yeah, those are okay,” Dean says. “Do we have ranch dressing? I feel like James Junior’s really gonna like ranch.”

“I was going to make my own balsamic vinaigrette,” Sam says.

“That’s a little fancy to go with chili dogs,” Dean grouses, but Ophelia seems to be enjoying herself, so while he thinks Sam is probably overstating the need to eat salad, Dean can’t get too annoyed by it. Sam just shrugs in response, like he hadn’t considered the relationship between chili dogs and vinaigrette, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t.

“Do we have buns?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah, I buy ’em in bulk and keep ’em in the freezer,” Dean says. “We’ve got all the hot dog staples, too: ketchup, mustard, relish.”

“Brown mustard?” Sam asks.

“Nah. Yellow.”

“Oh,” Sam says, sounding disappointed. 

“Might have a jar of dijon somewhere,” Dean says, which makes Sam perk up and makes Dean determined to find the jar. He shuffles things around in the pantry for a solid two minutes before coming across the tiny hotel-size jar of dijon, which he holds aloft. “Aha! I’m the best hunter!” Sam snickers, so Dean pulls an offended face. “Hey, I’m serious here. Praise me!”

“Good job finding mustard,” Sam says. “My hero.”

“Damn right,” Dean says, plunking the little jar onto the table in front of Ophelia. She picks up the jar, opens it, and smells it, wrinkling her nose. 

“That smells unpleasant,” she says. “I think… I do not like it.”

“If you don’t like mustard, you might not like a vinaigrette,” Sam says, frowning to himself. He looks over at Dean. “Maybe you should check for ranch.”

“That’s what I was saying to begin with,” Dean says. 

They squabble good-naturedly, with occasional commentary from Ophelia, while Dean cooks hotdogs and chili, and Sam and Ophelia finish the salad and manage to locate a bag of frozen tater tots in the very back of the freezer. The dinner prep process is slower than Dean anticipated, but roughly forty-five minutes later, he has everything on platters to carry out to the map table. The table in the kitchen would be too close a fit for everyone now, and ain’t that a change, having so much family that they have to use the big table?

Everyone finds a seat with minimal pushing and arguing, Maggie and Other Bobby joining them. Mary assures Dean that she extended the invitation to the handful of Apocalypse World hunters still in the bunker, but most of them are still uncomfortable around Cas, let alone a bunch of new, winged strangers. Dean doles out paper plates and tosses rolls of paper towels to each end of the table, then he falls into the role of chili dog cruise director, explaining the ideal chili-to-dog ratio, demonstrating the proper way to apply mustard, and so on. 

“I think we should have that conversation now,” Cas says to Dean as he’s just about to launch into a spiel on why ketchup is the superior form of tomatoes.

“What? Why? Everybody’s having a good time!” Dean says.

“They’re relaxed. That means they’ll listen better,” Cas says. 

“You don’t think the adults should talk about it first?”

“I think that Mary Junior is an adult, Ophelia is close, and James Junior is competent enough to be a part of a conversation about him,” Cas says.

“Fine,” Dean says. “Like I said. Not my call. Hey, Sammy?” Sam looks up from his salad. “Cas wants to have ‘the talk’ with the kids.”

Sam’s eyes widen comically. “The,” he silently mouths “sex,” then in a normal voice, “talk?”

“What? No, dumbass, the hunting talk,” Dean says. “Jesus.”

“I knew that,” Sam says. He did _not_ know that.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says. “You on board? ’Cause I keep telling Cas, I don’t really get a say in this, so you guys have gotta—”

“Why don’t you get a say?” Sam asks, looking honestly baffled. 

“Because they’re not my kids.”

“Sure they are,” Sam says. “Cas, did you tell him he didn’t get a say?”

“No. I told him the opposite of that, but he’s stubborn and doesn’t listen to me,” Cas says. 

“But they’re not like _my kids_ , so my opinion doesn’t matter _as much_ ,” Dean says. 

“That’s stupid,” James Junior says, which wouldn’t normally hurt Dean that much, but the kid has a huge smear of yellow mustard on his cheek, and being called stupid by a 9ish-year-old with mustard on his face squeaks past Dean’s threshold. 

“Hey!” Dean says.

“Well, it’s true,” James Junior says, delivering the line without even looking up from his hotdog, as though he weren’t invested in the outcome and just needed to make a factual statement.

“Dude, curb your kid,” Dean says to Cas.

“Why? He isn’t wrong,” Cas says.

“Honey, why do you think your input isn’t important?” Mary asks. “From what I can tell, most of what you boys do here is a family venture. Why would this be any different?”

“See?” Cas says.

“Shaddup,” Dean says.

“Dean doesn’t want the children to hunt, but he feels his perspective is somehow less valuable because none of the nephilim shares his direct parental biological material,” Cas says.

“You know, when you say it like that, it sounds dumb,” Dean says. 

“Precisely.”

“I mean, don’t say it like that!” 

Cas glare-squints at him. “I know exactly what you mean, but wording it differently won’t make it any less stupid.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean says. “If I get an equal say, I don’t want James Junior and Ophelia going on hunts.”

“Okay,” Sam says.

“‘Okay’? You’re not gonna argue with me?” Dean asks.

“Dean, I was the one who grew up _hating_ that life,” Sam says. “I don’t want the kids to grow up like that.” He looks at Mary, who nods.

“I never wanted you boys to know about hunting, at least not until you were grown,” Mary says. “We can’t do anything about what Ophelia and James Junior know, or Jack or Maggie, for that matter, but we don’t have to take them out on jobs. Why would you think I— _we_ — would want that?”

Cas sighs. “I’m to blame for that. I suggested that James Junior might require additional changes of clothes in order to reduce laundry costs during hunts.” He hangs his head. “I don’t have a great deal of experience with children, outside of Jack.”

“Oh, Castiel,” Mary says softly. 

“And by assuming things would be a certain way, I made Dean feel as though his input was not necessary, when, in fact, it is very necessary,” Cas says. 

“Can we not talk about my feelings?” Dean says. “This isn’t about my feelings.”

“But it is about your feelings,” Cas says.

“It’s not. It’s about the kids,” Dean says.

Cas makes uncomfortably intense eye contact with Dean. “Dean, your input is very necessary, both for my own happiness and the happiness of everyone in your family.”

Dean ducks his head. “Jeez. Do we have to make this about me? ’Cause this isn’t about me.”

“It kind of is,” Sam says. “As far as I’m concerned, at least with Ophelia, I thought it would be like it was with Jack. All of us working together, making decisions together.”

“I feel the same about James Junior,” Cas says. 

“Mary Junior’s an adult,” Mary says, “but if she weren’t, I’d feel the same way.”

“Okay, okay, we’re all co-parenting, none of the kids are hunting, let’s just stop talking about it,” Dean mumbles, as he buries his face in his arms, resting on the table.

“You’re about to get chili in your hair,” James Junior points out.

“Thanks, kid,” Dean says.

“You’re welcome,” James Junior says. 

“So none of us want to bring Ophelia and James Junior on hunts, at least not now,” Mary says. “We can’t exactly send them to school, though, can we? Even if we could forge the paperwork.”

“Yeah, not the best plan,” Sam agrees. “Still, we’re sitting on one of the best libraries in the world. What could they need to know that isn’t somewhere in here or online? We’ll homeschool them, functionally.”

“What if they want to run off to college like you did?” Dean asks, not able to help it.

“Then they can take the SAT and we’ll put together some homeschooling transcripts for them. I’m sure you can find a hundred sites about how to do that,” Sam says.

“What if we want to learn to hunt?” James Junior asks.

“We can start your training now, but not as the focal point of your entire life,” Sam says. “Not like it was for me and Dean. We can work with weapons, teach you the lore, but in between, you’re learning math and social studies and how to be kids.”

“What if…” Ophelia begins quietly. “What if we don’t want to hunt?”

“Not everyone does,” Sam says, smiling at her. The resemblance between the two of them looks even stronger, suddenly. “That’s fine. If you still want to help the cause, you can do that with research or in other ways. Go become a doctor or lawyer, if that’s what you want. That’ll help us, too.” 

“See, honey?” Mary says to Dean in a low voice.

“Yeah, Mom, I see,” Dean says.

“Uh, no offense, but this whole touchy-feeling nonsense is giving me heartburn,” Other Bobby says, his first contribution to the conversation. He addresses Mary directly. “You mind if I go finish this in my room?”

Mary smiles at him. “Of course not. Sorry to drag you into our family drama. I think they forget, sometimes.” She turns her face up towards Other Bobby, and he gives her a quick, whiskery kiss on her cheek. 

Dean can feel his mouth dropping open, and Sam shares an equal expression of shock or horror. Dean gives Sam a _did you know about this?_ look, which Sam counters with an _of course not, why would I know anything about our mother, who is so wild and mysterious?_ look. Dean rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath, which clearly communicates _yeah, okay, you’ve got a point._ The little eyebrow raise Sam responds with seems to suggest _at least it’s not Ketch_ , which Dean is sure everyone else at the table would agree with, even the ones who haven’t met Ketch. Cas, who has been watching Dean and Sam’s silent exchange, nods his agreement. 

After Bobby leaves the room, Mary looks back at them, saying, “Really, boys?”

“But Mom!” Dean says.

“But nothing!” Mary says. “I’m allowed to have a life.”

“But with _Other Bobby_?” Sam says.

“There’s nothing wrong with this Bobby,” Mary says. “I didn’t even know your Bobby.”

“Still!” Dean says.

“He _is_ a much better choice than Ketch, though,” Cas says, matter-of-factly.

“Cas!” Sam says, as Dean says, “Dude! We weren’t saying that out loud!”

“Thank you, Castiel. I agree,” Mary says.

“Cas, don’t encourage her,” Dean says. 

“Just because you can’t see what’s right in front of you, doesn’t mean I can’t,” Mary says, low enough that Dean can choose to ignore it, which he definitely chooses to do.

“Is there more cake?” James Junior asks in a welcome subject change. 

“No, but I think I saw some popsicles in the freezer behind the tater tots,” Sam says. “Want me to help you look?”

“Yes, please!” James Junior says.

As James and Sam stand to flee to the kitchen, a high-pitched noise fills the bunker, swiftly followed by a blinding white light. As the light resolves itself, a husky voice shouts a guttural string of syllables Dean thinks might be Enochian. 

“OH ZIR, CA OM HOXMARCH!” 

The light is still so bright that Dean can’t make out the figure within it. He has to look away and shield his eyes, though he can see that none of the nephilim have turned away. Cas goes rigid beside Dean, his face frozen into a look of terror. 

“What does that mean?” Dean asks Cas. When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean smacks him on the arm. “Cas! What does that mean? Is that the angel programming again?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. It’s the opposite of that. It means ‘I am, therefore, fear.”

“Well shit,” Dean says.


	9. Chapter 9

The new nephilim’s eyes glow a deep reddish-amber instead of yellow-gold and the shadows of enormous wings unfold on the walls behind them. Shadow also cloaks the nephilim’s body, hanging from them like a cloak draped from their shoulders to the floor. Dean can’t tell if the nephilim is a girl or a boy, swathed in all that shadow, or who they might be related to, just that they’re young, with a very pale face twisted up in anger below thick, dark hair. 

That pale face turns towards them, scanning the people seated at the table. Dean assumes they’re looking for Jack, like Ophelia and James Junior had, or maybe even Mary, like MJ. MJ had also come here angry, though MJ felt more like brilliant, righteous fury and this nephilim feels like dark, seething rage. Maybe this nephilim is MJ’s evil twin. Maybe they’re the nephilim-Sammy to MJ’s alternative-universe Dean.

Or maybe the nephilim was just looking for Sam, because as soon as they lay eyes on him, they scream with inarticulable hatred, shadows streaming out from their body like a black aura. Long tendrils of shadow knock everyone from their seats onto the floor, except for Sam, who sits pinned in his chair with a dawning look of horror on his face. 

The nephilim shouts another string of guttural syllables in Sam’s direction, outstretching a thin, pale hand towards him. Sam is pulled to his feet by the shadowy force, tangible darkness wrapping itself around his neck like a tightening rope. 

“Sam!” Dean yells. He struggles against the shadow pressing him to the floor, but it’s heavy, like a lead blanket, and the harder he fights, the more it weighs him down. Beside him, Mary does the same, and on his other side, Cas’s eyes light up blue as he pushes back against the darkness with little more success. Sam is going to die while they all lie there being slowly crushed by shadows.

“No!” Ophelia screams, hauling herself to her feet, her own eyes beginning to glow. “Not my father.” She moves slowly, like she’s walking in higher gravity or against a strong wind, but she’s standing, finally up on her feet. The shadows around her ripple like water with a stone dropped into it, and as the ripples spread out and hit the amber-eyed nephilim, the shadow flickers slowly in and out of existence long enough for Sam to take a gasping breath before solidifying again. Ophelia is clearly trying to use her power to send the new nephilim away, but isn’t strong enough to overpower them.

“Leave my sister alone,” James Junior says, also pushing himself up to standing. The nephilim tries to speak again, but this time, no words come out. Unfortunately, that doesn’t have any discernible impact on the nephilim’s shadow powers, which knock James Junior backwards into Ophelia. She barely keeps them both on their feet. 

MJ’s blade is already in her hand as she rises to her feet with very little trouble. Her silver sword slices through the shadow strands around her, and the new nephilim howls soundlessly. MJ flings her blade at the nephilim, but they bat it aside with a new outburst of shadowy tendrils. The sword clatters to the ground as MJ growls, running with eyes ablaze towards the attacking nephilim. The sword fades out and reappears in her outstretched hand. 

“Enough!” Jack says, rising to his feet with glowing gold eyes. His power radiates outward, trapping everyone in its waves. The shadows spreading out from the new nephilim retract to wind around their body tightly. Sam’s gasping breaths are the only sound audible above the _whomp, whomp, whomp_ of energy rolling off of Jack. Ophelia and James Junior are frozen in place. MJ moves more slowly, but still manages to throw her blade again, this time catching the nephilim just below the left shoulder, digging into the meat under their collar bone. 

The nephilim’s face twists into a rictus of pain, their mouth opening in a silent scream—James Junior’s powers still at work—as they sink to the floor in slow motion, descent slowed by the power pulsing out of Jack. The shadowy nephilim finally hits the ground, harder than expected, their breath knocked out of them in an audible _oof_ as their back meets sigil-laden Men of Letters concrete, the amber-red of their eyes abruptly giving way to a normal eye color. 

Dean runs to Sam, who coughs a little, dark bruises blooming on his throat, but otherwise seems alright. Dean grips one of Sam’s arms in both hands to haul his giant ass back onto his feet.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks. 

Sam nods. “What the hell was that?”

“Hell if I know,” Dean says. “How’d you manage to piss off some kid from another dimension?”

“I have no clue,” Sam says. He looks at the nephilim, and his face softens a little, the sap.

The shadow-wrapped nephilim curls up in a fetal position on the floor, chin on knees. Their body spasms as noiseless sobs wrack their thin frame. They’re young, so fucking young. Tears course down their pale face from rich brown eyes shaped like Sam’s, rolling over high, familiar cheekbones. The kid cries messily, just like Sam. Around Dean, his family stirs, dragging themselves onto their feet. Heaving breaths and soft groans of pain echo off the bunker walls.

“Why?” Jack demands.

Blood seeps through the shadows where MJ’s blade is still jammed into the angry nephilim’s flesh. They snarl silently back at Jack through tears from their spot on the floor. The long, shadowy tendrils wrapping their body look frayed at the ends, some of them starting to fade out entirely. Dean sighs, because whether or not the kid’s some of kind of evil spawn, they’re about to be both bleeding _and_ naked on the bunker floor, which feels just a step too far. 

“MJ?” Dean asks. “Sweater?”

MJ turns blazing eyes towards Dean, who holds up his hands in an _I mean no harm_ posture. Her lip quivers, like she might mirror back the bleeding shadow nephilim’s snarl, but instead, she just huffs and shrugs off her cardigan, extending one regal arm towards Dean with the sweater hanging disdainfully from her fingertips. 

“Thanks,” Dean says, snatching the sweater. He takes a slow step towards the bleeding kid on the floor. Jack lets out an alarmed yelp and moves like he plans to jump between Dean and the new nephilim. 

“Dean, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jack says, his eyes still glowing gold. 

“Maybe not, but I’m pretty sure that’s another one of Sam’s kids,” Dean says, taking another careful step forward, “and I’m not leaving Sam’s kid sitting bare-ass naked in their own blood. I don’t care how evil they are.”

The nephilim tries to speak, but no sound comes out. Instead, they inhale and exhale loudly through their nose. The heavy breath shifts the sword in their shoulder, eliciting a sharp, pained hiss. They brace their right hand around the blade and glare miserably at Dean as he walks towards them with the sweater held out. Dean half expects the kid to fling him backwards or produce a blade of their own and stab him in the gut as he moves to drape the cardigan over their good shoulder, but instead, they just sit passively and allow themselves to be covered. Ophelia’s sweater, already slightly too long on MJ, swallows the bleeding nephilim, covering them from shoulder to thighs. This kid definitely didn’t get Sammy’s height.

“Alright, that’s step one,” Dean says, backing away. 

“What’s step two?” Jack asks, suddenly uncertain.

“Uh, your guess is as good as mine,” Dean says. The nephilim, who Dean desperately hopes came with their own name and doesn’t end up ‘Sam Junior’, mouths something, but James Junior’s still got the whammy on them, so no sound comes out.

“James Junior, let our sibling speak, please,” Jack says, then addresses the bleeding nephilim before him. “I want to know why you’re trying to kill Sam.”

The nephilim’s face relaxes slightly, and when they try to speak this time, the words tumble out in a husky voice, another incomprehensible string of choked-sounding Enochian. Dean never thought about Enochian being a language you could speak with an accent, but it must be, because the kid’s Enochian sounds different from Cas’s.

Of course, Dean recognizes maybe a dozen words in Enochian, tops, so he’s not exactly the best judge. He looks over at Cas, who is frowning at whatever the nephilim is saying.

“What?” Dean asks. 

“They’re talking about their mother,” Cas says. “And Sam.”

“I knew it. I knew they were another one of Sam’s!” Dean says, turning to give Sam the smirky _see how smart I am?_ look.

“They keep calling Sam ‘the Betrayer’,” Cas clarifies.

Dean’s smirk falls. “Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

“Definitely not,” Cas says.

“Do they speak anything but Enochian?” Dean asks. “That is Enochian, right?”

“Yes, but a strange dialect of it,” Cas says. 

“Do they speak English?” Dean asks.

Cas says something to the nephilim, who grumbles back in Enochian. Cas frowns.

“They don’t have a very high opinion of it, apparently,” Cas says. “Perhaps something to do with the Sam of their universe.”

“What’s your name?” Sam asks the kid, who looks newly infuriated by the sound of Sam’s voice. They try to stand while still bracing the sword, doing a piss-poor job of both things. Their skinny legs splay out like Bambi’s on ice, joggling the sword and sending a fresh splash of blood cascading down their shoulder. They go even paler and plop back down onto their scrawny butt.

Cas says something to the nephilim, probably just repeating Sam’s question. This time, the nephilim grits out a resentful mouthful of Enochian that sounds like, “So-nee-zohd-en-tee.”

“What’s that mean?” Dean asks.

“It’s their name,” Cas says. “Soniznt.” It sounds a little different when Cas says it, but still like a lot of unstressed syllables all jammed together. 

Dean frowns. “That’s all one name?” 

“Yes.”

“It’s a lot of name,” Dean says. “Did they pick that out themselves? There’s no way Sam named them that.”

“I mean, it’s possible, I guess,” Sam says, rubbing his fingertips lightly over his bruised throat. He looks more thoughtful than upset.

“No, it’s definitely not possible,” Dean insists.

Cas asks the neph— _Soniznt_. He asks Soniznt something else in Enochian, which earns him another sneer in response, followed by an even angrier burst of the weird-sounding Enochian. The kid braces the sword with their left hand, and starts using their right hand to try pulling the blade out of their shoulder, glaring and possibly swearing at Cas all the while. 

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Dean says. 

Soniznt grunts something that sounds like, “Agh!” and returns to wiggling the sword.

“Somebody make them stop before they hurt themselves,” Sam says. He looks like he’d love to rush to Soniznt and pull the sword out himself, but even a twitch in the kid’s direction sends them back to a state of snarling and shadows swirling. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean asks… well, nobody in particular, really. The multiverse at large. “The kid’s like the Tasmanian Devil. How are we supposed to help if they won’t hold still?”

Cas sidles closer to Soniznt, who flinches but doesn’t try to scramble away again. When he speaks—still in Enochian, so Dean only catches about two words he _possibly_ recognizes—his voice is even more gentle. Whatever he says, Soniznt actually seems to relax. They nod and set their jaw, like they’re bracing themselves, as Cas carefully rests one hand on Soniznt’s shoulder and grabs the sword with the other. He draws the blade out in a single, smooth movement. To Soniznt’s credit, the kid doesn’t so much as whimper. 

“Okay, that was step two,” Dean says, mostly to Jack, who looks like he can’t wait to dive into some deep interrogation. Dean wouldn’t exactly call that the best idea of the century, so instead he turns his attention back to Soniznt. “You understand English, right?”

Soniznt nods sullenly. 

Dean forces himself to smile as pleasantly as he can. “Alright. Great. So, you can answer me in Enochian or English or Swahili, I don’t give a shit, but you’re gonna answer me. We clear?” 

Soniznt nods again. Their eyes keep darting over to Sam and narrowing into a familiar Sammy-expression, which makes it harder for Dean to stay too mad at the kid until he remembers the kid actually tried to _kill_ Sam just a few minutes ago. 

“So, Soh-zee, uh, Soh-nee— yeah, I’m just gonna keep screwing that up,” Dean says. “You mind if I just call you Sonny for now?” Soniznt shrugs their good shoulder and nods slightly. “Okay, Sonny. You want to tell me why you tried to kill my brother?”

Sonny’s head snaps up, their eyes narrowing as they stare at Dean. They say something in their weirdly-accented Enochian. 

“Hmm,” Cas says. “Interesting.”

“Huh? What? What’s interesting?” Dean asks.

“They called you ‘the Martyr’,” Cas says. 

“Great. Sam’s the Betrayer, I’m the Martyr, I guess we’ve all got great nicknames where this kid comes from,” Dean says. “Freaking perfect.”

Now that Sonny has decided to start talking, they do so rapidly, tripping over their words a little in their haste to get them out, occasionally cutting their eyes to Sam or Jack. Cas nods as he listens, occasionally offering his own response in regular-sounding Enochian. After about two straights minutes of Sonny monologuing, Cas gestures for the kid to take a breather. 

“Their story is interesting, and explains a great deal about this meeting,” Cas says. 

“And?” Dean asks.

“Apparently, in Soniznt’s universe, Sam fully embraced his demonic powers and reigned over Hell as its king.”

“Bullshit,” Dean says, while Sam simultaneously says, “That makes sense.”

“How does that makes sense?” Dean asks, turning to Sam and looking at him incredulously. 

“It was bound to happen in some version of the multiverse,” Sam says, shrugging like the idea of going full darkside doesn’t even bother him that bad. “You and I both know it was touch-and-go for me for a while in this universe.”

“But not full-on-evil touch-and-go!” Dean says.

“Close enough,” Sam says. “I didn’t realize that’s what was happening, but you did. If I hadn’t had you to steer me back…”

“But you did,” Dean says.

“Not in Soniznt’s universe,” Cas says. “When that Sam began to rise to power, that version of you attempted to stop him. He killed you in the ensuing fight.”

Dean sighs. “’Cause I’m the Martyr. Right.”

“Without you, Sam’s path to the throne of Hell was unimpeded,” Cas says, a note of sadness in his voice.

“So who’s Sonny’s mom? How was the king of Hell making it with an angel?” Dean asks.

“Erubey,” Soniznt says. 

“Erubey?” Sam repeats, mulling it all over in his head. Dean sees the moment the lightbulb goes on, which is still way before it would’ve happened for Dean. “Wait, _Ruby_? Your mom was Ruby? As in, the demon Ruby?”

Soniznt’s anger returns full force, and they attempt to stand again before Cas gently pushes them back to the ground. The kid snarls at Sam and chokes out something that, judging by the tone, is probably the Enochian for ‘eat a dick’, and starts crying again. 

“Not a demon,” Cas translates. “An angel.”

“As in, an angel possessing one of the same bodies that Ruby did here,” Dean says. “Sure, the kid looks kinda like Ruby number two, but there’s no way Ruby, _Ruby_ , could be a friggin’ angel.”

“Apparently, she could be and was, in Soniznt’s universe,” Cas says. Sonny mutters more angry Enochian through tears, which Cas quickly translates. “She hid the pregnancy, and later Soninzt, from Sam. When he found out, he tried to take the child, and when he failed, he killed them both. As Soninzt describes it, both of them were torn to pieces.”

“Jesus. The kid remembers?” Dean asks, his stomach turning over a couple times at the thought. 

“Obviously,” Sam says. He wipes his face with the back of one hand, which is the first clue Dean has that Sam is crying. “Sonny, I’m so sorry that happened to you and your mother. I’m so very sorry, but that wasn’t me. In our world, Ruby was a demon, not an angel. I never became the king of Hell. I never went full darkside. Dean and Cas, they pulled me back.”

Sonny rubs their hands over their wet eyes and looks at Sam suspiciously, but without any snarling or yelling, at least. Jack takes this opportunity to move in closer to Sonny, clearly telegraphing all his movements so as to not set the kid off again, and help them to their feet. He says something to Sonny too quietly for Dean to hear, but Sonny nods, their face relaxing. 

“So Ruby-the-angel just happened to have the same vessel that ended up being Ruby-the-demon’s meat suit?” Dean asks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “That’s a weird-ass coincidence.”

“Likely not a coincidence,” Cas says. “A divine parallel. The places in which these universes touch are interesting.”

“Interesting?” Dean snorts. “More like traumatic.”

Now on their feet, Sonny looks even smaller than before, and the similarities with Ruby’s last (and Sam’s favorite) meat suit are more obvious. Sonny’s eyes have Sam’s shape, but Ruby’s vessel’s dark brown, along with her dark hair and slight build. Dean still has no clue if the kid is a guy or a girl, and everybody seems to have naturally fallen into referring to Sonny as ‘them’, which neither Sonny nor Cas has argued with or corrected. 

“Let me know if this hurts, and I’ll stop,” Jack says to Sonny as he holds a wad of paper towels from the table against Sonny’s stab wound, which the kid tolerates without complaint. 

“How do we know the kid isn’t gonna freak out and attack Sam again?” Dean asks, directed mostly at Cas, since Sam’s attention is mainly on Sonny being tended to by Jack.

“We don’t, but we could show a little faith,” Cas suggests. “Soniznt seems to have accepted, at least for now, that our Sam and their Sam are not the same people, and also appears to be comfortable with Jack, as the other nephilim were.”

“I don’t know if we can trust them,” Dean says. “I don’t want any of the kids to get hurt, either.”

“Sonny wasn’t trying to hurt the kids,” Sam says over his shoulder, not looking away from Sonny. “Just me.”

“I want to keep an eye on all of them when they’re together, though,” Dean grumbles. 

MJ doesn’t seem particularly impressed by the newest member of their family, watching the kid warily from a spot near the table that Dean would lay money on her having chosen because it provided the best defensive position between Sonny and Mary. James Junior, likewise, looks anxious. Ophelia, however, joins Jack beside Sonny, draping Sonny’s shoulders with a thick quilt – she must have left the room at some point and come back with the blanket.

“Be careful,” James Junior says to Ophelia and Jack.

“Our sibling won’t harm us,” Ophelia says, tucking the blanket a little more tightly around Sonny, who definitely looks younger than Ophelia, maybe fourteen at the oldest. 

“But Sonny pushed me and tried to hurt you,” James Junior says, side-eyeing Sonny. 

“Sonny was confused, like Mary Junior was when she got here,” Jack says. “We’re going to help them understand about our world. You, Ophelia, Mary Junior, and me. We’ll do it together.”

“We’re family,” Ophelia says. “Sonny is a Winchester, too, just like us.”

“Exactly!” Jack says. He carefully pushes part of the blanket aside to look at the place MJ stabbed Sonny, moving the wad of paper towels aside. He must be happy with what he finds, because he gives Sonny a big beaming smile. 

“You ever feel like life spins us around so fast it’s amazing we can even walk straight?” Dean asks Sam, who chuckles.

“I think the only answer is to never have any expectations,” Sam says. 

“That sounds like a bleak way to look at things,” Cas says. 

“Nah,” Sam says. “If you’re not stuck on things going a certain way, any outcome is a surprise, but you’re never really shocked or upset about it.”

“Then I guess regular you isn’t shocked that multiversal yous keep knocking up angels all over the place,” Dean says, patting Sam on the back when his expression turns somewhat bemused. “You no-condom-wearing sonofabitch, I know I taught you better than that.”

Cas clears his throat. “Perhaps different factors are at play where celestial beings are involved.”

“Sure, sure, give _him_ a pass,” Dean says, laughing, “where I’m over here being all responsible, no-glove-no-love, and _zero_ angel babies.”

“Maybe angels just don’t find you that attractive, Dean. Did you ever consider that?” Sam asks.

Cas makes a sound like he’s choking on his own tongue, then starts coughing. Dean’s face turns a little red. Sam looks back and forth between the two of them, pleased as pie, grinning like an idiot. Dean staunchly ignores him, though that means staring at Cas instead, which redoubles Cas’s awkward coughing and makes Dean’s face burn even hotter. 

“Slowest burn ever,” Sam mutters to himself, before turning his attention to the freefall of nephilim, who now seem to be engaged in some sort of divine, or possibly unholy, love fest that involves a lot of hugging. Sonny looks completely baffled by the whole thing, but isn’t snarling or crying anymore. Even MJ has gravitated closer to the kids and adopted a more relaxed posture, which means she’s got one knee ever-so-slightly bent and one hand resting lightly on her hip. Mary is watching all of them with wide eyes.

“Think we oughta go rescue Mom?” Dean asks, to break the weird moment between him and Cas. 

“It might be wise,” Cas agrees. 

“Nah, she seems fine,” Sam says with a dismissive wave. They all watch as Mary stands and slowly makes her way towards her eclectic hodgepodge of nephilim children and grandchildren, where she immediately gets drawn into the hugging. “See?”

“They’re probably gonna get blood all over themselves,” Dean says. 

“Soniznt has likely healed by now, if their powers are anything like the others’,” Cas says.

“Yeah, but there was a lot of blood,” Dean says. “It was everywhere.”

“Perhaps we should intervene,” Cas says. 

“Anything to avoid having the conversation, huh?” Sam says.

“Shove it up your ass, Sammy,” Dean says happily, as he and Cas stroll towards the freefall.


	10. Chapter 10

Eventually, they all succumb to the inevitable realization that even nephilim need to sleep. Sorting out the sleeping situation takes a little time, since Sonny is still uncomfortable around Sam and doesn’t particularly trust MJ, after the whole angel-blade-through-the-shoulder thing. Ophelia and Maggie offer to share, but Sonny must pick up on the vibe between the two girls, and declines politely. 

Ultimately, Jack ends up pulling another cot into his room, “just for now,” as he puts it, and he, Sonny, and James Junior all settle in there for the night. MJ claims her own small room nearby, because even though they’re starting to fill the bunker closer to capacity, nobody really feels like arguing with her. Mary turns in shortly after the kids. 

Sam, Dean, and Cas end up drinking beer in the library and talking well into the night, partially because they all need to decompress, but partially, Dean suspects, because they’re all half-expecting another nephilim to show up any minute. By around three, they silently agree it’s safe to turn in, and head to bed. If Dean and Cas linger for a second in their doorways, exchanging eye contact that isn’t quite sexual but definitely is hanging out in the vicinity of sexual, nobody else is out there to see it, and they both go to their own separate rooms.

Over the next few days, the family falls into a new rhythm. They make a few more trips to Walmart, this time in small groups of three or four, until everyone has what they need. Sonny and James Junior move off the cots in Jack’s room and into a shared room two doors down with two sturdy extra-long twin beds. Everyone has weather-appropriate clothing for all of Kansas’s seasons, plus all the socks and underwear that Cas could possibly worry about them having. 

They go through laundry detergent at three times the pre-freefall rate. Dean pretends to grumble about it while simultaneously ordering lingerie bags and a pricier liquid detergent for delicates so the girls and women can all wash their bras without ruining the underwire. MJ, for some inexplicable reason, turns out to be allergic to the fancy liquid detergent, and is very indignant about it.

As they reach the end of their first full week as a family of about a million, the next hunt comes, because the next hunt always comes, eventually. After another long discussion, they determine that Mary and Sam can handle the hunt with MJ as backup. Nobody comes home dead, so the hunt is declared a success, even if Sam sprained his ankle when the ghoul knocked him over a headstone and has to be put straight to bed with an ice pack when they get back.

Long after everyone else has gone to bed, though, Dean is still up and wandering around, his head too full of thoughts for him to settle yet. Spending a week playing house with a bunch of kids has him in a weirdly domestic place, one he hadn’t ever thought he’d really end up in again after Lisa and Ben. Like Ben, the nephilim aren’t Dean’s biological kids, but he still feels like he’s parenting them; it isn’t a bad feeling, except for how it makes him feel a little lonely for someone to go to bed with at the end of the day.

Sam had ribbed Dean and Cas the other day about avoiding having a conversation. At one in the morning, Dean suddenly feels like he might want to at least dip his toe in the pool of that conversation. He walks past Cas’s door a few times before finally knocking. The door swings partially open, displaying an empty bed, still neatly made. Dean feels strangely disappointed not to find him there.

“Well, damn,” Dean says. “I guess maybe I’m doing this.”

Because he isn’t ready to start the conversation stone cold sober, Dean snags a couple of beers from the kitchen before going in search of Cas. He finds him down in the garage, seated on a long bench, staring fondly at Baby. Dean sits down next to Cas, nudging him over with his hip, and sets cold beers down in front of both of them.

“Well, it’s been a hell of a week,” Dean says, picking up his beer and holding it in Cas’s direction.

“That’s a profound understatement,” Cas says. He takes the cue, though, and clinks his bottle against Dean’s before drinking from it.

“Still, we all survived,” Dean says. “That’s not nothing.”

“Sometimes I think you Winchesters really need to consider that ‘didn’t die’ isn’t the only goal to strive for,” Cas says wryly.

“Hey, I resent that,” Dean says. “Nobody sold their soul or made a pact with anybody evil, either.”

That makes Cas laugh. “Fair enough,” he says. 

“And God didn’t show up, Lucifer’s still dead, Michael’s still dead,” Dean continues to list, counting them off on his fingers.

“A truly successful week, then. My apologies,” Cas says.

“That’s six whole goals, Cas.”

“Yes, Dean, I can count.”

“Yeah, I know you can. I just want you to acknowledge our six Winchester goals.”

Cas nods gravely. “I acknowledge your six goals, and I offer you a seventh.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks.

“Nobody from our universe got transported to another universe,” Cas says. “It only happened the other way around.”

“That’s a great seventh goal,” Dean says, grinning at Cas. He has plenty to smile about, as he sees it. Whether they met six goals or seven—though Cas is right, his suggestion is a great one—the Winchester family came out decidedly in the black for once. They’re up four members, and none of those members are currently trying to kill any of the rest of them. Ophelia has a girlfriend, James Junior is already halfway through the complete works of John Dee, MJ is taking to training with Mary like a duck to water, and Sonny is beginning to stand being in the same room as Sam for more than fifteen minutes. The hunt even went well. Dean will take the win. He’ll take all the wins.

Cas leans back in his chair and looks at Dean appraisingly, a half-smile on his face. Dean wipes at his face with the back of his hand. 

“I got something on my face?” Dean asks.

“It’s just nice to see you happy,” Cas says. 

Dean shrugs. “It’s been a good week. Well, it’s been a weird-ass week, but it turned out good. No reason to not be happy today.”

Cas’s half-smile blooms into a full smile. “I wish you had reasons to be happy every day.”

“Aww, Cas. You big girl,” Dean says, even if he’s thinking _I want you to be the reason I’m happy every day_. Maybe Dean’s the big girl. 

“I mean it,” Cas says. “Everyone else in this family wants that, too. None of us wants you to suffer, Dean. We want you to be happy.”

“Will you stop it?” Dean says, cheeks burning red. “You don’t have to say that kind of stuff out loud. You can just think it, you know, manfullishly.”

“I’m extremely manfullish,” Cas says, “despite that not being a real word.”

“Yeah, I know you are,” Dean says. He scoots a little closer to Cas. He knows what he’s doing, or what he wants to be doing, though he’s not sure how he’s going to make it or if he’ll have the guts to follow through. He wants to give it a shot, at least. 

“I still want you to be happy,” Cas says.

“Stop,” Dean says. “Seriously, Cas, you’re killing me!”

“I wouldn’t want that,” Cas says, voice pitched low. He leans in closer to Dean, and— _don’t freak out, don’t freak out_ —closes his eyes. Dean leans in, too, letting himself be pulled into what he’s pretty sure is going to be a rocking first kiss.

The room fills with bright light and a piercing noise.

“Come on!” Dean yells. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me right now with this!”

When the light fades, however, the sound doesn’t disappear. It tapers from one high-pitched sound into a different one, something less angelic and more…

“Holy shit, Cas, that’s a baby,” Dean says, leaping from his seat and bolting to the naked infant currently kicking and squalling over by the stairs that lead back up into the bunker. He picks the baby up, and it immediately quiets, regarding him with big, blue eyes. “Uh. I think this one’s yours.”

Cas crosses the room to Dean and the baby, giving it the same sort of blue-eyed, soul-searching look in return. “I’m not so sure about that,” he says, touching a fingertip to the baby’s chin – its tiny, dimpled chin. “Remind you of anyone?”

Dean gasps and holds the baby farther away from his body. “Nuh uh.”

“I think, maybe, uh huh,” Cas says. 

“It’s got your eyes,” Dean says, feeling something warm and entirely unfamiliar unfurling inside his chest. 

“And _he_ has your chin,” Cas says. “And your nose.”

“Don’t talk about my nose. You don’t know anything about my nose!”

Cas chuckles. “Dean. Look at him.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Dean says, angling the baby towards Cas to encourage him to take it, please take it, before Dean gets his hopes up for something he didn’t even realize he’d been hoping for. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says in his sternest voice, putting both of his hands on Dean’s arm. “Open your eyes and look at your son.”

Dean opens his eyes, because he’s kind of a sucker for Cas’s stern voice. He looks down at the baby, who no longer seems remotely upset. The baby appears content to just look at Dean and Cas, like it— _he_ —knows them. Dean doesn’t really see himself in the baby’s squishy, chubby face, but he sees Sam in the dimpled, round cheeks. He sees Mary and John. He sees _Cas_ there, too, which makes him up look at Cas in wonder.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, breathless and awed. 

“I know,” Cas says. “I think we should name him Dean Junior.”

“What?” Dean says, pulling the baby close to his chest, the complete reversal of what he’d just been trying to do with him. “We are not naming him Dean Junior!”

“We could call him DJ.”

“No fucking way, Cas,” Dean says. Cas starts to open his mouth, so Dean cuts him off with, “And we aren’t naming him Cas Junior, either.” Cas closes his mouth. 

Dean looks down at the baby, who stares back up at him with Cas’s blue eyes and yeah, okay, possibly Dean’s nose and chin, but also Sam’s huge forehead, the poor kid. His hair looks light, too. He might be blonde, like Mary and James Junior. That little fold under his eyes could be John’s, the baby version of what hopefully won’t turn into John’s heavy bags. Dean shifts slightly, and the light from one of the garage’s hanging fixtures falls right across the baby’s face, making him squint. Dean bursts out laughing.

“What’s funny?” Cas asks, though he doesn’t seem bothered.

“He’s tiny, and he’s already got your squint,” Dean says. “Shit, Cas. You might be right about him.”

“Of course I’m right,” Cas says, mustering a surprising amount of authority for somebody who currently has a baby’s tiny toes gently pinched between his fingers, wiggling them like piggies. 

“What if we named him after Bobby. Our Bobby,” Dean says. “Or, maybe after my dad. Crap, we can’t call him Bobby-John. Me and Sam already used that one.”

“Robin,” Cas says.

“Huh?”

“If you combine ‘Robert’ and ‘John’, you would get something close to ‘Robin’,” Cas says.

Dean’s eyes widen. “If he’s Robin, does that mean I get to be Batman?”

“Naturally,” Cas says, even though he obviously has no clue what Dean’s talking about. All the pop culture references in the world, and Cas is still a Marvel guy. Fucking typical.

“Hey, Robin,” Dean says to the baby. 

“Hello, Robin,” Cas says. “My name is Castiel and this is Dean. We’re your fathers.”

“Or, we are in this universe, anyway. I have no clue how it works where you’re from, ’cause the anatomy doesn’t really match up here,” Dean says. “Hey, little guy.”

Robin blows a raspberry. Cas coos at him in a totally embarrassing way. Dean doesn’t actually mind, though a thought crosses his mind that makes him chuckle. 

“You know what I just realized?” Dean asks.

“What?”

“We had a baby before I even kissed you.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Was that something you were planning to do?”

“You’re telling me you weren’t feeling the same vibe I was feeling?” Dean says. “It was like ten minutes ago.”

“Oh yes. That vibe,” Cas says. “You could do it now.”

“Dude! I’m holding our kid now! I don’t want to drop him.”

“It could be a child-appropriate kiss,” Cas says. “I won’t let you drop him.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, okay, then.”

Cas kisses him. It’s awesome. Dean doesn’t drop the baby. Everything is good. Weird-good, but good. 


End file.
